A Tragedy of Error
by Kation
Summary: Vesper Lynd finds herself at the mercy of circumstance, both fortuitous and unfortunate, and in the wake of her near-death in Venice, must come to terms with what is now her life.
1. Chapter 1

_"Life is, in fact, a battle. Evil is insolent and strong; beauty enchanting,  
but rare; goodness very apt to be weak; folly very apt to be defiant;  
wickedness to carry the day; imbeciles to be in great places,  
people of sense in small, and mankind generally unhappy.  
But the world as it stands is no narrow illusion, no phantasm,  
no evil dream of the night; we wake up to it, forever and ever;  
and we can neither forget it nor deny it nor dispense with it."_

_-_Henry James

For Vesper Lynd, dying was like being reborn. Only this was not the rebirth she'd experienced with James Bond, in those fevered, bright, heavenly days they'd had together, learning to love again and basking in the love he'd professed for her. No, this was foggy and heavy, with voices around her, cutting in and out, words she heard but could not understand. She felt that a great weight was on top of her, holding her back, and every movement she made was fighting against it.

Consciousness waxed and waned but was never completely present. She felt like she was underwater, at the bottom of an ocean, and every attempt to pull herself up was met with an equal and opposite force. Hands gripped at her, pulling her back to the bottom, to the dark, comfortable depths. Then she would get some strength back, she would fight and swim and kick at whatever pulled her down and she would almost break the surface before falling down again.

Finally, the forces holding her down let go, she kicked with all her might and surfaced, the fog cleared, and she woke with a start in a London hospital. She felt dreadful. Her lungs burned, her chest was bruised and sore. IVs and oxygen tubes ran over and from her body. Memory failed her as she woke, but she struggled to make sense of the situation. Small things came back; a yacht, Venice, and with an intensity that made her breath hitch and her pulse quicken, James Bond's face, all blue eyes and sandy hair, kissing her, his arms around her waist.

Breathing heavily as inexplicable guilt rushed over her at his memory, she looked around the room, pushing back the panic, hoping for an answer to her present condition. Her eyes struggled to focus, but she spotted the older woman at once, sitting in a chair at her left side, staring impassively back at her.

She'd never seen the woman's face before, but she recognized the Head of MI6 at once. She was just as James had described her; severe in appearance, stern and unyielding, but capable of acts of sympathy despite herself. And indeed, she gave Vesper such a pitying, regretful look that the younger woman felt dread creep over her at once. Then M's face became the practiced mask of austerity once again.

"You're awake," she stated, leaning slightly forward in her chair. "We weren't sure you'd pull through."

Vesper looked back down at her body and tried very hard to remember, but it was so fleeting and ephemeral. She had been here for quite some time, and had clearly survived some set of dire circumstances. Vesper found herself at a loss for words, confusion and dread and that sickening, nagging guilt still flooding over her. She turned to look at the older woman again, and she saw that her face must have betrayed her bewilderment, as sympathy once again flashed briefly over M's features.

"Do you remember what brought you here?" M asked softly, and Vesper could only shake her head. M nodded, turning for a second to look out the window next to her. She looked back at Vesper momentarily, with the air of one used to giving bad news.

"You nearly drowned," M said, and a flash of memory hit Vesper, the impossibly cold water of Venice, fighting for breath. "You were brought to the hospital, having just been resuscitated in the ambulance. There was some brain trauma; you'd been without oxygen for several minutes by the time they got to you. They weren't sure you'd regain consciousness. Cerebral hypoxia, I believe. It was touch and go for a few days, but you seemed to stabilize. Then the fever started. You developed pneumonia from the water you'd inhaled." She paused, looking into Vesper's wide eyes, "You nearly died. The bacterial strain was resistant, and they gave you several courses of antibiotics before you showed some improvement. You've been here for nearly three weeks."

Vesper looked away. _Three weeks_. And yet that guilt still tore at her, though its cause still remained elusive to her. She cleared her throat painfully and turned back to the older woman, again regarding Vesper coolly. She attempted to speak, finding her throat raw and her voiced atrophied from disuse, but cleared her throat again, pushing back the urge to cough.

"James?" was all she could croak out, and M seemed to be expecting it, as her flint eyes strayed from Vesper's face for a quick second before looking back at her again.

"We know they kidnapped Yusef," and at her words, a flash of a man's face came back to her, a man dark as James was light, a man she loved, was so sure she loved, until James waltzed in and—she was pulled from her thoughts as she realized M was speaking again. "— blackmailed you, and forced you to give them the money."

M's words sunk in, each stabbing the knife of guilt further into her heart, as in images and emotions the final days of her former life came back to her: the man with the eye patch, her desperate attempts to enjoy James, to revel in him so completely, in the likely probability she'd be summoned to her death.

And she had been, or would've been, and with startling clarity she remembered the men, and James's attempts to save her, and that crushing, clawing guilt when she saw his face, then underwater in the cage. After that was darkness, a darkness that she felt right now and had to look away from the woman she'd betrayed.

"Bond believes you're dead," M said matter-of-factly, and Vesper could only nod. "He flagged down an ambulance; they arrived seconds after the building collapsed and they took you. There was no room for him. He called me as soon as he could, and I called the hospital. They told me you'd been resuscitated, and I instructed them in no uncertain terms to not let him into your room and to inform him you were dead. He put up a fight, but by the time we arrived, he'd quieted down. I assured him of your death, and under the guise of transferring your body back to London for the funeral, we airlifted you here."

Vesper closed her eyes as sadness washed over her, filling her so completely it she could feel it pressing down on her. Her bones ached and her heart felt that it might break. She turned back to M, unable even to feel anger at what the woman had done.

"I discovered your alliance before he did and I knew you would be useful in helping us infiltrate their organization. I also knew that if he had any hope you were alive, he would find you, and I needed him to track down the people behind the blackmail. You may find me heartless, Miss Lynd, and I'm sorry, but you committed treason, and I needed Bond back."

Vesper could not look at M, as the woman's words had driven the final dagger of guilt into her heart. She felt broken now, wounded so painfully by the realization of what she'd done. A great weight sat on her chest.

"Now," M continued, and Vesper struggled to listen, "I had not anticipated that your illness would develop or that you would be unconscious for so long, and in that time we have managed to infiltrate this organization and find out a great deal more than I'm sure you can tell us. You may have outlived your usefulness, but that does not mean that you may not be useful again some time in the future. As well, it's possible you would be in danger from the organization if they knew you were alive. So I've set up a flat for you, and you'll be given a modest stipend until such time you feel able to work again." M shifted, her confident air slipping away.

"Now," she began again, softer this time, "Vesper Lynd is legally dead. I supervised the signing of your death certificate myself. But we've gotten you new papers, birth certificate, passport, etcetera. You'll be a citizen, with all the benefits that offers, but you may not travel out of country, and you may not contact James Bond. If the improbable happens and you cross paths, you will look the other way. If he contacts you, you will deny your former identity and you will cease communications immediately. Understood?"

Vesper nodded weakly.

"Good," M replied, standing up, "the doctors have assured me you can be discharged in the next few days." M bent to pick up a manila envelope that had been leaning against the chair leg. "This is your new identity. A car will be waiting to escort you to your new home as soon as you're discharged. I'll be in touch."

And with that, she placed the envelope on the bedside table and exited the room.

Silence filled the room and pushed down on Vesper as the sound of M's heels faded down the hall. She could hear the doctors and nurses milling about outside, and the quiet hum of the traffic on the street below. She looked down at her body, withered, bruised and alien to her beneath the thin gown.

Her eyes caught sight of a strange name on the paper bracelet encircling her wrist and with a great effort she lifted her arm and read. Where normally her name would be on the little band, that name that she had hated for so long, that name that James Bond had helped her love again, was another, this one unfamiliar as any other.

Curious now, her pulse quickening, she turned and picked up the envelope. It was sealed and her weak fingers struggled to open it, pulling at the flap ineffectually before finally tearing it open. She reached in and pulled out the familiar little book, opening it to see her own face staring back at her beneath the holographic security film. And next to her picture, the same name, her new one, above the attestation that she was, in fact, a British citizen, and her new birthdate.

It said, "WRIGHT, LAURA."


	2. Chapter 2

Laura Wright was discharged the next day, after much poking and prodding and much listening to her chest. She listened as they warned her of the possible side-effects and complications she might experience, the memory and cognitive problems, the respiratory issues.

She regarded the situation dully, feeling not much of anything as they wheeled her down the hallway to the front entrance. M had left her some new clothing, which was nothing fancy, but it was clean and it was not a gown.

The black unmarked car was waiting, just as M had promised, and Vesper allowed herself to be helped in, looking around at the city for the first time in weeks from behind the large black sunglasses she wore. Clutching the bag holding her new identity, she settled on the black leather seat.

The driver said nothing to her, and simply handed her a smaller version of the envelope in her bag. She took it wordlessly, tipping its contents into her hand to find a pair of keys with an attached paper tag reading "#8." She clutched the keys as the driver pulled away from the hospital. She did not look back.

Ω

The driver pulled up to a modest block of brick flats in South Croydon some time later. He turned and spoke to her for the first time.

"This is it, Miss Wright. Number eight, Gulliver Court. She'll contact you once you're set up."

Vesper could only nod at the man, and, clutching her keys and her little bag, exited the car. It was a quiet area, at the end of a close, and few people milled about. She could see why M found it suitable. She started immediately for the building.

The flat was modestly furnished, with modern appliances. It had a single bedroom and a bathroom with a bathtub. Every room was painted white.

Vesper found with mild surprise that the cupboards and refrigerator were well-stocked with food, and that both the telephone and the television were hooked up as well. She turned it to the news channel and sat down on the mid-priced sofa.

Hours later, the ringing of the telephone stirred her from a drowsy slumber, and she woke to find it was much darker. She'd fallen asleep—not surprisingly, as she'd done more today than she had in weeks. She groaned as she stood stiffly, her legs, not used to being used so much, burned in protest. She picked up the phone and croaked out a greeting, her voice still hoarse from neglect.

M's voice greeted her at the other end and she froze. The woman's stern tone had the unfortunate ability to pull her from her detachment, and it was uncomfortable.

"I trust you've made yourself at home," M said.

"Yes," Vesper replied, her voice a little stronger. She cleared her throat.

"I don't know if you've had time to look through the envelope I gave you yesterday, but there's a bank card in there. The PIN is written on a sticky note on the back. Your stipend will be deposited on the first of every month." M paused, and Vesper waited, looking out at the darkening sky.

"In a week, or two, I'm going to send a man to see you. He's a psychiatrist. He's very good, so I suggest you make your best effort to speak candidly with him. You've been through a terrible ordeal, Miss Lynd, and it won't do to go through it alone, do you understand?"

The use of her old name gave Vesper a visceral pang of longing for her old life, and she took a deep breath, pushing back the feelings.

"Yes," Vesper replied again, "thank you."

"No need to thank me," M returned. "If you need to contact me, there's a telephone number written on a white card in the envelope I gave you. Call it, leave a message and I'll call you back within the hour. In the meantime, take care, and I'll be in touch."

There was a click and Vesper returned the cordless phone to its cradle, staring at it for a few seconds. She looked out at the twilight, then over at the television. It was eight o'clock. She picked up the remote and shut it off, then turned to walk to her new bedroom. She shut the blinds and crawled beneath the soft covers. She was asleep in minutes, and slept for nearly twelve hours.


	3. Chapter 3

The first two weeks at number eight passed by in a sort of fugue for Vesper Lynd, now legally Laura Wright. She was still recuperating from her illness and the coma out of which she'd only recently awakened.

The hypoxia she'd suffered had left her forgetful and aphasic, and she spent several days losing articles only to find them in the strangest places. Words did not come easily to her, though thankfully she had very few conversations. Her physical scars, the IV marks and the bruising on her chest faded with time, and her lungs began healing as well, though she still found stairs and long walks left her short of breath.

She only left the flat to pick up the essentials; bread, milk, eggs. She spent very little time outdoors, mostly because she preferred to be alone and felt uncomfortable with the stares she seemed to garner. As well, she preferred to remain inside until her body was used to being upright and mobile again after so many weeks horizontal. Her muscles and bones were atrophied from lack of use and only after nearly a week and a half did she feel comfortable moving about normally.

She thought little of James Bond or her present situation, having walled off the emotions that had so broken her earlier. She spent very little time ruminating, instead occupying herself with books or with television. Sometimes she watched the children play in the nearby park, or the birds nesting on the roof across the way.

She spent her days merely fulfilling her body's needs; she ate, slept and bathed when she needed to, went to the toilet when she needed to, when to the shop round the corner when she needed to. It was not happy, but it was comfortable, and it was the only way she could stand it.

M didn't call again, but almost two weeks to the day, a very well-dressed scholarly man knocked on her door. She was hesitant to let him in, but felt nonetheless indebted to M, and escorted him in and to the sofa.

His name was Dr. Lloyd and he worked for MI6. M was right, he was very good, and he tried valiantly to get Vesper to talk about her ordeal. She could not. The dam she'd built up was holding it at bay for now. It would break, some day, but not today. She told the man as much. No sense in beating round the bush.

He nodded, seeing she was telling the truth and left her with his card.

Then she was alone again. She breathed deeply, pushing back the panic that had come to her. The man's questions had left her unsettled, despite her unwillingness to talk. She sat on the sofa, looking out at the sky, as grey as it always was, breathing deeply and evenly and eventually she eased back from the edge.

She fell asleep on the sofa, and woke hours later feeling much better.

M called her the next day and Vesper told her what she'd told the man. She was not ready, not yet. The older woman seemed to accept this and after Vesper's assertions that she was doing well, she let her go.

Her days carried on like this for many more weeks; sleep, eat, walk, sleep, read, shop, sleep. She was shocked one day to discover it had been nearly a month and a half since she'd left the hospital, which meant it had been more than two since she'd almost met her end in a watery steel cage. But she didn't spend much time thinking about it.

She dreamt sometimes, terrifying dreams that left her gasping for breath when she woke, ones that made her feel again, really feel everything, guilt, grief, fear, _oh, so much fear_, over and over again until she thought she would die from the pain. But the agony would fade when she woke.

The memory of the pain, however, did not, so she kept herself in this monotonous routine, day after day as the summer faded to autumn, the sun setting earlier, days becoming brisker, leaves threatening to change, rain and gloom pervading the skies.

Soon it had been two months since she left the hospital, and M called to check in. She told her little, because there was little to tell. She was still not ready to speak with Dr. Lloyd, she told her, and M sounded more than a little concerned.

"If you keep on like this, Miss Lynd, it's eventually going to come back, more than likely all at once. It may be very difficult to cope." M's voice was as soft as Vesper had ever heard it.

"I can't, I'm sorry. Not yet," Vesper told her, and the lack of emotion in her tone disturbed even her.

"Very well," M replied, and Vesper thought she heard her sigh, "I'll be in touch."

She hung up the phone and settled on the sofa for a mid-afternoon nap.

She was still often tired in the day, despite the ten hours she got every night. She attributed it to her recovery, then to boredom, and then, she admitted to herself, to her likely depression. But she couldn't bring herself to be concerned about it now.

Vesper simply continued to exist. She couldn't call it living, couldn't call it a life. She merely was, drifting from one location to another, feeling nothing, contemplating very little.

Soon it was late November and the rain lessened somewhat, though sunny days became rarer and rarer. It was cold often, with temperatures in the low single digits in the mornings, making her daily walks (a new habit, in spite of herself) chilly affairs, and more often than not she could see her breath.

In truth, she had felt better these last few weeks. Physically, anyway. She had a little more energy, and found she slept less during the day. Emotionally she was the same, but it was something, she supposed.

She attributed her newfound energy to her body finally recovering from her ordeal. It had been three months since that day in Venice, and her brain and lungs were back to normal. Her daily walks helped her recover muscle tone, though her upper body was still weaker than it had been. There were times when she felt almost content, on the walks she took, or curling up with a good book. She felt as though a fog had lifted, and there was a tiny spark of hope that maybe things would continue this way. That she would get better. That this would be a life again.

Then it happened.


	4. Chapter 4

It happened one day as she stepped out of the bath. She'd reached for a towel to wrap around her hair and then for her bathrobe, only to realize she'd left it in her bedroom. So, instead, she pulled the towel off her head and was about to wrap it around when she caught sight of herself in the mirror.

She spent very little time in front of the mirror these days. She often gave her reflection no more than a cursory glance before stepping out of the flat, and she didn't very much like to look at or touch herself either lately.

Her body had become almost alien to her. It was for getting around, utilitarian, no longer for pleasure or to be fussed over. When the bruises and scars had faded she hadn't paid much attention to it. She couldn't make herself care about her figure or her appearance anymore. It simply ceased to matter.

But what she saw in the mirror gave her pause, and, very slowly, she turned to the side. It was more pronounced that way, what she saw. Her pulse quickened, a spike of panic poking through the barrier. She brought her hand up, surprised to find the area around her navel felt firmer and distended. She stood up straight, pulling in her belly as much as she could. It didn't go away.

She frowned at her reflection, her blue eyes wide beneath her dark brows. She hadn't noticed the area because it was barely there, just a little swelling on her firm abdomen. Several possibilities ran through her head as she ran her hand over it again, that solid little bump. But as the more likely one came to the forefront, she found it very hard to breathe.

At once she looked up at her breasts to find them slightly fuller than they'd been before. Not noticeably, though she rarely spent much attention on them these days. It nothing more than maybe half a cup size, but there was no mistaking it. They were larger, despite the weight she'd lost and hadn't been able to put back on.

Her mind reeled, her breath coming in short gasps. _No_, she thought, _no_, _they would have found it. They would have tested me for it. They would have told me. Unless M_— But then a thought struck her and it all made sense. She almost laughed. Or would have, perhaps, if the circumstances were different.

The night before that day, in the hotel room in Venice, their last night together, she'd been preoccupied. The man with the eye patch had rattled her; they'd had more than a little champagne and had been careless, the condoms forgotten in one of their bags on the floor. And then again the next morning. It had been stupid, she knew, but she'd been much more concerned with the very real possibility that she would have to betray James, or that she may even be killed.

Before that, they'd been careful. That was when it had happened.

She'd fallen pregnant the day she had nearly died, and the reason the doctors had not found out was because it was too early. They'd probably tested her when she arrived, found it to be negative, maybe even tested her a week later. But it probably would still be too early to show up. They wouldn't have known.

And her complete detachment from reality had meant she simply hadn't noticed her body changing. She'd attributed her lack of a period these past few months to the trauma, to her bruised and battered body healing herself, to the emotional stress she'd experienced.

But, she realized now with a sick, sinking feeling, she'd been wrong. James Bond had left her with a little souvenir of their all-too-brief time together, and now he would never know.

Ω

How long she remained on the bathroom floor, she was not sure. She was shocked, shocked right to her core. She'd been managing, coping as well as she knew how. Her body had healed, her psyche would, she knew, eventually. Some day she'd be able to live again.

But now that feeling was creeping in again, the one she'd felt in her hospital bed. That broken, hopeless, feeling, crushing her, pushing her down.

Guilt filled her again, but this was a different guilt, one that made her, for the first time in all these months, want to cry. She wanted to sob at the guilt she felt for this fledgling life. It surprised her how strong it was, how it sliced through her anhedonic haze and cut her to the bone. She wanted to weep for this child, who would never meet its father and who was cursed with a mother who wasn't completely there.

She felt helpless as well, trapped in this approximation of a life. Whether she liked it or not, she was under the thumb of the Secret Intelligence Service. She had no freedom. What would they do to her, if they found out? She couldn't tell M. She knew that much.

She didn't even know if she was safe to see a doctor on her own. Would they be keeping tabs on her health records? Could they do that? She didn't know. She couldn't think. She was cold, her hair was still wet and she was naked, sitting on the cold tile of her bathroom floor.

And for the first time in a very long time, she thought of James Bond. She thought of the way he had found her that night, when she had sat not unlike she was sitting now, on the floor of the hotel shower. He had saved her that night. And, oh, how she wished he was here to save her now. She didn't care that it was weak, that thoughts of him were off-limits, dangerous.

She wanted the firm warmth of him next to her, she wanted to hear his deep voice assure her, wanted to feel his arms around her.

And suddenly she wondered what James would think of her now, helpless and broken, naked on the bathroom floor, too dissociated from reality to realise her condition, to give their child the care it deserved. And the thought of his scorn spurred her into motion.

She stood, wavering slightly, and exited the bathroom to find the flat completely dark. She walked to the bedroom, mildly surprised to find it was nearly eleven o'clock. She'd been in there for hours.

She went to the wardrobe, pulled on a pair of cotton pyjamas and shut the blinds. She crawled into the bed, shutting her eyes against the images that came, unbidden.

James, on the beach, telling her he loved her, James in his wheelchair after they'd transferred the money, when she'd realized the kind of man he was. The immediate, visceral need she felt at that moment, at the memory of his face took her breath away, and she felt the dam crumbling.

Everything she'd tried to push back these past months threatened to burst forth, and she tried, valiantly, to hold it back, but the emptiness of the bed, and the room and her life suddenly struck her. She was alone, was to have this child alone, raise this child alone. And thoughts struck her, things that would never be: James with a child, their child. James rocking a baby, James reading their child to sleep.

The tears came then, and she wept for the father James Bond would never get to be, she wept for this wretched child in her womb, and she wept for herself, just as unlucky. She sobbed like she never had before; wept until she had no tears left, until her throat ached and her head throbbed. And when she was spent, she slipped off to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

She spent the next day in bed. She'd awoken to a rare sunny morning, and the hopelessness that had suffused her entire body the night before had faded, leaving her depleted and numb.

Though she did not have much of an appetite, her mind and body still reeling from the shock, but she ate three generous meals nonetheless. She did her very best not to think about why.

The numbness that pervaded her now was a different one, one that reminded her of the way she'd felt upon her father's death, which had left her, aged fifteen, an orphan. It was not sadness, but shock, the mind's way, she supposed, of coping with life-altering events.

When she could keep her mind off it she still felt shaken, but it was tolerable. If she paused, even for a few seconds to think about it, she risked falling apart again, her breath hitching, her thoughts tumbling.

So she kept her mind occupied, reading and eating, looking out at the city from her window, surprised at how different it looked bathed in sunlight.

It kept on that way for several days, and she did her very best to keep busy, cleaning the flat, walking again and reading. Television, she found, was a great way to keep one's mind free of thought, and she spent many hours watching the news, or documentaries and films. Any mention of pregnancy or babies or even small children had her rapidly changing the channel, or even fleeing to the safety of the bookshelf, or taking off on a brisk walk.

She took great care to eat healthfully, though she still found it hard to admit why, to accept that she was doing so not only for her own health.

A week had passed before the shock began to fade. Acceptance, she knew, was still far away, but she began to feel less unsettled about the situation. Thoughts of her condition were still so strange to her, and she still could not believe that a new life was growing within her.

But it was growing, this she knew, because even as the week passed the firm little rounding grew larger. She started to gain weight, as well, as she began eating better, and her body became, day after day, more ample and robust.

She was surprised to find she didn't hate the changes that came over her as her condition progressed, and very slowly, as November faded to December and winter threatened, she found herself becoming less and less disconcerted with the fact of her condition. It was in part due to the changing of her body, the signs she could now not ignore.

In the two weeks since she'd unceremoniously discovered her pregnancy, what had been a barely noticeable swelling was now a rather prominent bulge, reaching up to her navel and almost discernable beneath the thin tops she wore.

It was partly this which made her realise she would have to see a doctor soon, no matter the consequences. It had been more than three months since she left the hospital, and the child within her was beginning to make its presence known.

So, she left the flat one morning, a telephone number clutched in her hand and placed a call to the local GP surgery from the payphone down the street. She would not have been surprised to find that M had bugged her phone.

After checking to make sure she wasn't being watched, or followed, she called and informed the receptionist of her likely condition and its progress, and was given an appointment in two weeks' time. She hung up, turning to scan the street for anyone suspicious, but there was no one.

She made sure she wasn't being followed as she made her way back to the flat. She wasn't. A ghost of a smile touched Vesper's mouth when she realized how distrustful she was acting. James would have been proud.

_This is it, then,_ she thought, as she returned to the flat, flopping down on the sofa,_ you're really going to do this. _Not that the thought of terminating the pregnancy hadn't crossed her mind, it had been one of her first thoughts in the shock of discovery. At the time it was simple; removing the problem would put her back on track, would allow herself the luxury of recovering on her own terms. It would be difficult, yes, to get rid of the only thing James Bond had left her, but she would not be cursing an innocent with the sins of its parents.

But as time passed and acceptance bloomed she knew she could not. It was going to be the most difficult thing she ever did, raising this child on her own, that much she knew. She'd seen how her father had struggled after her mother's death, and she knew her situation would be no different.

But she had begun to become attached to the burgeoning life, to its tenacity and its existence despite the odds. That this child had come to be in the face of so much sorrow and bloodshed, had blossomed from a love that neither she nor, she suspected, James, had ever imagined they'd find, amazed her, and for that reason she could not part with it.

M called the next day to check in, and Vesper found herself momentarily frozen with fear upon answering the telephone. But the older woman did not sound particularly distressed, nor did she intimate in any way that she'd discovered Vesper's secret. She was, however, seemingly heartened to hear Vesper sound so well, and let her go without even mentioning Dr. Lloyd.

And in truth Vesper felt better than she had in a while. The fact that M was likely ignorant of her condition meant she could focus on the tasks at hand, namely, eating well, getting out more, and taking care of her health. It was odd. The phone call to the doctor had solidified it for her. She felt more purposeful now, and each pound she gained and each inch she gained around her midsection made her feel as though her efforts were fruitful.

The days following M's call were met with a mix of trepidation and cautious optimism for Vesper, as if at any moment the telephone might ring and the game would be up. She was apprehensive about the appointment, as well. Her name would be attached to a medical file and she was still not sure if MI6 would have access to it.

Of course, she admitted to herself, the worry over the doctor's visit was not completely due to her privacy concerns. She still had not confirmed her pregnancy in any tangible way, she had not taken a test, or seen a sonogram, so she could only rely on her own intuition and trust in her own body. She had not spoken to anyone about it, had no friends to confide in. It was her secret, and to hear it verified by a doctor, to speak about it with them—the thought of it left her uneasy. She almost preferred to keep it this way. Just her and this child and no one else.

But of course she knew she must seek medical help, at the very least confirm that the child was healthy and her pregnancy was progressing well. And this, of course, was another fear of hers. Her complete lack of antenatal care all these months was worrying. Or that, in some cruel twist of fate, one of many she'd suffered, her child had some rare anomaly that even the best care could not have prevented.

But she was young, she knew, not quite thirty, and she had that on her side. And she had not drunk even a sip of alcohol, smoked a single cigarette or even taken even an aspirin since her release from the hospital. As well, it wasn't as if she'd not kept care of herself. She had eaten well, had walked often, had gotten plenty of rest.

Still, the possibility was there, and her luck these days had not been great.

But three days after M's phone call, something happened that cleared her mind of all of that.

It was midday and she was on the sofa, curled up with the newspaper, a nature documentary playing on the television. Her stomach had been unsettled since she'd eaten, and her left hand was caressing the area, now a visible bulge beneath the top she wore.

It had been nearly three weeks since she'd learned of her condition and in that time her belly had grown substantially. It was now very difficult to conceal beneath clothing, and she often wore thick jumpers when going out to hide it from concerned onlookers. It had moved up past her navel now, and she could see it when she looked down as it now stuck out past her breasts.

It was then, as she calmly read news of the tornado that had ripped through Kensal Green, that she felt something. She stopped reading, lowering the newspaper, and it happened again. Just a little jab, low in her belly. She froze. Her hand went to the area, pressing on the firmness, and she felt it again, a little tap against her fingers.

All the breath left her body as she realized the roiling stomach she'd been experiencing all day was not that at all. That fluttery feeling she'd been feeling on and off for the past few days had been her child's movements.

Then she felt it again against her hand, a tiny foot pressing out against her womb. Then something spectacular happened.

She laughed. Not a little titter, but a full-throated peal of laughter, and it felt unbelievably good. So good, in fact she wondered why she'd waited more than three months to do it.

She spent the rest of the day revelling in her child's tiny movements, smiling more than she had all the time she'd been here at number eight. It was her first concrete evidence of her pregnancy, the first tangible thing.

And not only that, she realized, that night as she lay awake in bed, the baby's fluttery movement keeping her company, it was the first time in months she didn't feel alone. And, she supposed, she now realized in part why she'd decided not to terminate her pregnancy.

She would always have someone now, the way her father had had her to care for after her mother's death. She had been his companion in grief, and she knew that neither would have made it through without the other.

This child would save her, as its father had done all those months ago, but she would never let it down. She drifted off contented for the first time in a very long time, her child's quivering movements lulling her to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Even as the weekend came to a close, the baby's movements became stronger, though they were still just little pokes and jabs, and the feeling of tiny arms and legs moving against the wall of her womb.

She would often sit, on the sofa, or lie in bed and, press on her belly, pushing against her child's foot or sometimes even the solidness of the baby's back. That her child was now something that could be felt, that moved and slept and lived, and that she was privy to it, was completely new territory for her.

The attachment she'd had to this life a few weeks ago was nothing compared to the affection she felt for it now. That she could now feel and interact with her child filled her with longing to see it with her own eyes, to be able to hold it and rock it to sleep.

She was now less uneasy about the appointment with the doctor, which was a mere week off, than she had been earlier. Now that she had felt her child's movements, she felt more confident that it was healthy. As well, she hadn't had any complications, either, so far, no pain or cramping or spotting.

She was still uneasy about letting anyone else in on her little secret, as if keeping it to herself would ensure everything would be fine.

She wondered, as well, if she was perhaps being a more than little paranoid about MI6's concern in her health affairs. M had absolutely no clue about her pregnancy, of that she knew. If she had, she would not have hesitated to let Vesper know.

So why would she have such a vested interest in Vesper's health? She had recovered physically from her ordeal and M was aware of that. She was certain that would have been the extent of the woman's concern.

This assuaged her apprehension as the days counted down to the eighteenth of December, and as she grew even stouter around her middle and her child grew stronger, the kicks and flutters becoming even more vigorous.

She woke early that day, unsurprisingly. It was overcast, and just as unsurprisingly, fat raindrops fell lazily to the ground.

She rose and ate, showered and cleaned her teeth. She spent some time in front of the mirror, naked, amazed at how her body had changed in the mere four weeks since she'd discovered her condition. The little bump had become a swollen rounding, straining and pushing at her abdominal muscles. It hadn't grown out much further past her breasts, which had grown considerably themselves, now swollen and webbed with blue veins, but it had moved up towards her ribcage, and she'd noticed that in the last few days she'd been becoming increasingly short of breath.

She was still fairly comfortable, except for the aches and pains as her body accommodated the baby's growth, and the urge to urinate, which felt like nearly every few minutes. She poked and prodded at the area, still not quite able to believe that this was her body, which had always been so lithe and slim.

She had never imagined her thin body could grow like this, could expand and nourish and feed another life. She smiled at herself in the mirror, running a hand over her belly.

She'd noticed as well that she'd gained a little weight in her face as well, and the big dark circles that had been around her eyes for these past few months had lessened. She looked much healthier now, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright, her hair now full and vibrant, no longer lank and lifeless around her face. Pregnancy agreed with her, she decided.

She dressed warmly, wearing the big woolly jumper that had the distinction of being the only article of clothing she owned that could now hide her condition, a coat and hat and her umbrella and set out.

Apprehension began to creep in as she strolled towards her destination, though the softly-falling rain helped to calm her somewhat. She began taking the deep, soothing breaths that had helped her before and by the time she entered the surgery, shaking off her sodden umbrella, she felt much more composed.

She checked in at the desk and sat down in the waiting area. There were only three other people waiting, a woman much more advanced in pregnancy than Vesper was, and an elderly couple. The woman smiled at her, and Vesper found herself instinctively pulling at the front of the sweater, hoping her distended abdomen was not visible.

She was called in soon after, and after a momentary hesitation when the nurse called out what was now her name (she was still not used to it, was not sure she ever would be), she entered and sat down on the examining table.

All through this she controlled her breathing, deeply and evenly, staring ahead at the anatomical posters on the wall. Still, her pulse had quickened, and the baby, perhaps sensing her distress, woke from its morning nap and began some frenzied kicking and twisting. This calmed her, somewhat, and she pushed at the little protrusion in her side, stroking her child's foot for a few seconds before it disappeared.

Soon after, the doctor entered, a smile on his dark face. He introduced himself as Dr. Grewal and extended his hand to her. She took it, shaking it timidly. He had a slight Punjabi accent, but spoke English fairly well.

"What can we do for you today?" he asked, sitting down at the desk, and placing her folder upon it.

She took a deep breath and told him, as best she could, glossing over things she'd rather not discuss, and others which were matters of national security, and as she went on, the man nodding impassively at her story, writing in her file from time to time, she found it got easier.

Four months of her life spilled out, and when she was done, she took a deep breath and felt spent, but better somehow, lighter.

She looked up at the doctor, who was now writing in her file on the desk. He seemed unfazed by her story, and asked her when her last period had been, and she almost laughed, because it seemed to have been so long ago. It had been another lifetime. She thought back, nonetheless, and told him the date. He wrote it down. He asked if she'd taken a pregnancy test. She said no.

He asked her about alcohol, about smoking, diet and drug use, and she told him, heartened somewhat by his words of praise for her abstinence. He asked about family history and she told him of her mother's death from lymphoma at age thirty, her father's alcoholism and what little else she could remember.

"And the father?" he asked, looking up at her over the metal rims of his spectacles.

"Not involved," she said, and looked away. She started the breathing again, looking out the small window at the bright grey sky, pushing back the thoughts that came to her, unbidden. When she was calmed, she looked back down. The doctor was still writing.

"Okay," he said, when he had finished, "I'm just going to take a look at you, if you don't mind."

He took her blood pressure, Vesper wincing as the tight cuff cut into her arm, then wrote it in her file. He then motioned for her to lie back on the table, which she did. She took a deep breath as he pulled up her top, revealing her swollen abdomen to another person for the first time. She looked up at the ceiling as he poked and prodded her belly. The baby was still moving vigorously, and at one point he smiled and looked down at her.

"You feel its movements?" he asked, and she nodded. "Any morning sickness?"

She shook her head.

"Cramping? Spotting?"

Again, she shook her head. He seemed satisfied with this and helped her back up. She covered herself again and he sat back down at the desk, writing more in her file. Then he took a cardboard wheel out of a drawer and spun part of it, writing down what it said. He turned to her.

"Your pregnancy seems to be progressing well, Miss Wright, and there are no signs of any anomalies. I would like to get some urine from you to test, and of course you will need a scan."

She nodded.

"Now, you are quite a bit further along than most patients I see. I believe you are about twenty-one weeks along, so it is important to get a scan as soon as possible. I'll do my best to get you and appointment in the next week or so, alright?"

"Okay," she replied.

"Now, have you put any thought into a birth plan, or where you're going to deliver?"

Vesper shook her head, smiling apologetically.

The doctor nodded, sympathy on his face. "You've still got time," he said, smiling. "See the nurse before you leave, and I'll get back to you about that scan, alright?"

She nodded, and thanked him.

"And, oh," he said, as she was about to leave, and she stopped in her tracks, turning to him, "I suppose you would like to know your due date?"

She nodded. In truth, she hadn't even thought to ask.

"Likely around the end of April, but I can't be too sure. They'll be able to give you a more exact date after your scan, okay?"

Vesper nodded, and left. _April_. Four more months and she would be a mother. It was difficult to believe. She could only smile and shake her head.

As she walked home from her appointment she was amazed at how relaxed she felt. A great weight had been lifted by finally speaking with someone about her condition. She felt accomplished now, like a hurdle had been cleared. She'd been encouraged as well by his findings, and his assurances that she was healthy and that the baby was developing well. There was still the scan, and she was sure, several more appointments after that. But it was enough for now.

When she reached the flat it was still raining, and she made herself a cup of tea and curled up with it on the sofa, staring out at the wet city, feeling better than she had in quite some time.


	7. Chapter 7

Dr. Grewal kept his word, and two days later, his nurse called with her scan date. There had been a cancellation, and they apologized, as it was all very last minute, but they had been able to obtain an appointment for her in two days' time.

Stunned, she confirmed, writing down the time and location. She hung up, staring at what she'd written.

_Two days_, she thought. Two days and she would be seeing her child for the first time, and not only that, the doctors and technicians would be looking for anomalies. She would be told whether her baby was healthy, or she thought, with a pang in her gut, not.

She took a few deep breaths, clearing her mind of the awful possibilities, and went about planning her journey. Croydon University Hospital was in Thornton Heath, further north than she had travelled in all these months. It was going to be odd, moving outside of her comfort zone, away from this quiet neighbourhood she had come to love.

She liked to stay in and around South Croydon, to lessen the possibility that she might encounter someone she knew, or show up on one of London's vast network of CCTV cameras. She knew MI6 monitored them, and couldn't help but wonder if M was keeping tabs on her this way. It was another reason she liked to dress heavily, to hide her condition from prying eyes.

The days went by quickly, as she knew they would, and soon it was Friday. It was the twenty-second of December and she was almost surprised to see Christmas decorations in shops and homes, to hear people wishing greetings of happy holidays. It had barely even registered to her that it was approaching that time, with all that she had on her mind.

And so, Vesper found herself waiting at a bus stop for the first time in years. It was warmer today, but she wore the woolly jumper nonetheless, and a light coat. Her belly was becoming unmistakable, and even in the four days since her appointment with Dr. Grewal it had grown.

It was worrying to her, how quickly she was expanding. If she was this size now, she thought, as she waited along with a half dozen other people at the bus stop, about halfway through her pregnancy, how big was she to get? How would she be able to hide it then? If M decided to drop by unannounced, or send someone to check on her, her condition would be undeniable.

But as the bus pulled away and she looked out at the city passing by, breathing deeply again, she began to calm. She needed her wits about her today, and could not afford to be overwhelmed by emotion.

The bus journey took a mere twenty minutes or so, transferring once, and soon she was walking toward the hospital, instinctively pulling her hat down low on her head, wishing she'd worn the sunglasses today. She felt exposed, insecure in this new area, and she longed to be back in the comfort of her home.

But she entered the hospital regardless, and after being directed to her destination, checked in and took a seat in the waiting room. It was nearly two in the afternoon, so the waiting area was nearly full, and the clientele was a mix; there were some pregnant women, yes, some obviously so and some, like her, whose condition was not evident, some middle-aged men and women, and several elder clients as well.

A few people glanced at her, but she did not acknowledge them, instead content to watch a small child playing quietly next to his obviously-pregnant mother. She had not had much experience with children, except for the younger ones she'd encountered in the numerous care homes she'd been placed in in the three years she'd been in care following her father's death, and she had not put much thought into what sort of mother she would be.

She was unfamiliar with infants, had never even held a baby, had no friends with children, or young relatives. As her pregnancy advanced she knew that this child would eventually enter the world, and she would be the only one tasked with its care. It was a terrifying thought, that she would be responsible this life, for feeding and clothing it and teaching it all the things it needed to know.

She felt a frown press into her brow, and she looked away from the child, out the window at the grey sky. She still had time, she told herself, taking a deep breath. There were still at least four months for her to prepare. She would be ready.

Soon she was called in and told to recline on the examining table. The technician soon entered, shaking Vesper's hand and introducing herself. Her name was Gemma and she was young, maybe thirty, and she checked Vesper's file before ensuring that she had taken plenty of fluids that day (she had, and her bladder felt uncomfortably full.)

She pulled up Vesper's top and tucked it under her breasts, squirting a small amount of warm gel on the now-prominent rounding. Then she touched the instrument to her belly. A picture came up on the nearby screen, though Vesper could not make anything from it, until—and her heart nearly stopped when it happened—the technician moved the wand and the outline of a tiny person flashed onto the screen in profile.

A perfect little head and a little button nose, attached to a neck and torso. Her child, and James's child; their child, visible to her for the first time. She had to remind herself to breathe, to take deep gulps of air and try to listen to the technician's words but she found it quite hard, as the image on the screen shifted, the baby moving, lifting one of its tiny arms, which Vesper felt inside her womb.

It was the strangest thing, to be able to see and feel the movement, to look at this life for the first time and confirm its existence. She glanced at the technician, who smiled back at her, sharing her joy. Her face felt cold, and she was surprised to find it wet, tears falling unbidden. She wiped them away, slightly embarrassed.

The technician moved the instrument around, taking measurements, confirming her doctor's calculation of nearly twenty-two weeks gestation, and a due date around the twenty-ninth of April. And Vesper watched, rapt, as the wand was moved around her belly and her child's entire body was shown, two arms, two legs, hands and feet and fingers and toes. The technician seemed satisfied with everything she saw, Vesper now completely oblivious to the discomfort of the plastic wand poking her in the belly.

"Would you like to know the sex?" the woman asked, and Vesper turned to look at her, eyes wide. She hadn't even thought of that, truthfully. She had only thought of the child's well-being, and truly had no preference either way.

"No," she said, shaking her head and she smiled. It would be a surprise, something to look forward to.

And then it was over, and the technician printed a little postcard-sized picture for her to take home, informing her that everything she saw looked good, but that the results would be looked over by her doctor and he would be contacting her. She nodded, taking the little card, unable to stop the smile that came to her lips when she saw the image.

She tucked it into her handbag and thanked the woman, setting off for the lavatory. She left the hospital in a sort of daze, not unlike the one she'd felt earlier in the week after leaving the doctor's surgery. She felt light, she felt almost gleeful. Her child was healthy, was perfectly formed, as well as she and the technician could see. Perhaps her luck was changing.

She spent the bus ride home taking out the little picture, drinking in every little detail, running her finger over the tiny profile. The black-and-white printout was fairly blurry, but she found her looking for any distinguishing features nonetheless, anything to link it to her or to James. She couldn't find anything, and she smiled at how ridiculous she was being, tucking the photo back in her bag as the bus pulled into South Croydon.

On the way home she passed a bookshop, and suddenly an idea hit her. She slipped in, grabbing a leather-bound journal off the shelf and, then, on a whim, a copy of a popular pregnancy guide.

She left, clutching the bag with her purchases, and walked down to the shop she often frequented. She found what she was looking for after a few seconds, on the rack next to the shoelaces and sewing supplies.

When she got back to the flat, it was nearly four o'clock and the sky had darkened considerably. She laid her purchases on the coffee table and hung up her coat and hat.

Then she came and pulled the little package out of the bag, opening it, and pulling up her top, wrapped the plastic measuring tape around her middle. She noted the number, and pulling the notebook out of its bag, she wrote.

_22 December, 2006_

_Nearly twenty-two weeks' gestation_

_Waist: 35 in_

_Dear James,_

_Today I got my first scan._

She smiled as she wrote, detailing everything she could for him, everything that had happened, the changes in her body and her mood, the baby's movements and her fears about MI6. And when she was finished, she looked over the words, feeling emotional spent, but accomplished as well, and she wished she had started this sooner.

She closed the book, and got up to make herself some dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

Christmas Day dawned grey and cool, the sky threatening rain. Vesper had never really been that fond of the holiday, not since her father's death. He had done his best to make it fun for her, had bought her gifts and always put up a tree, even in the later days as his alcoholism worsened and his health declined.

But once he was gone, Christmas lost all meaning for her. She had never stayed anywhere very long, moving from care home to care home, no one particularly concerned with the sullen, dark-haired teenager. None of them had truly celebrated the holiday.

So she spent the day like she spent most days, eating, reading, watching television, and going for a walk. She had been writing in her journal daily, detailing her measurements and weight (she had purchased a bathroom scale and weighed herself daily), her thoughts and feelings and the baby's activity rate for James.

She couldn't believe how beneficial it had been to be able to take down this information, how wonderful it was to have someone else to share her experience with, even if it was just a journal. She was aware James would likely never read her words, but it comforted her nonetheless.

The last week of the year went by quite quickly for Vesper, who was glad to see it go. It had been, certainly, the most interesting year of her life so far, but it had been tarnished and marked by the horrific events that had occurred.

She was, only now, starting to mend from them, to be able to think on them without the crushing guilt and pain that had previously accompanied the thoughts.

She was ready to say goodbye to this year, to move to the year that her child would be born, to a year with the hope of a new life, one no longer tainted by the heartache of the past.

So, on New Year's Eve, as midnight drew closer, she stood at her bedroom window, looking down on the young revellers and party-goers already stumbling about, a few them in the middle of a premature drunken rendition of "Auld Lang Syne."

She smiled at them, shaking her head, her hand resting on her swollen abdomen. The baby was awake, kicking and moving about, as if it sensed how important the occasion.

As the clock neared midnight, they began counting down and she found her lips moving in time with the loud chorus, smiling as the clock struck twelve and they began cheering and singing. She couldn't resist in mouthing along to the words, their meaning not lost on her, as old acquaintances of her own came to mind.

When it was over, she sighed deeply, her hand caressing her belly. A bittersweet feeling came over her as she thought back on the year that had been. A pang of sorrow and longing hit as she thought of James, his bright eyes and his smirk, of the time they'd spent together, and the circumstances that had torn them apart.

She allowed herself a moment to let the sadness and self-pity flood through her before the baby gave her a particularly violent kick and she came back to the present. It was a new year, and, she hoped, one that would be kinder to her. And one, she knew, in which she would have little time for feeling sorry for herself. A new person would soon need all of her attention and would not allow its mother the luxury of wallowing in her sorrow.

She looked down at her swollen belly, at the rounding that now obscured her feet, that was beginning to make life a little uncomfortable for her. She placed her hand on it and made a promise that she would make this child's life the best that she could. She would never disappoint this child, never abandon it, and she would make the absence of its father as inconspicuous as possible.

Then the baby gave another kick and she smiled, imagining it had heard her silent vow, and she looked back out the window at the new year.

Meanwhile, as the revellers carried on with Vesper watching, twenty-three hundred miles east in Kazan, Russia, James Bond spoke with M outside Yusef Kabira's flat. Snow fell down lightly around them.

"I assume you have no regrets?" she asked James.

"I don't," he replied, looking at her, the ghost of a smile on his face. "What about you?"

"Of course not," the woman replied, after a beat, "it would be unprofessional."

She informed him of Dominic Greene's death and Leiter's promotion, knowing he knew more than he was letting on, but unable to bring herself to care.

"Congratulations," he said, looking away from her, "you were right."

"About what?"

"About Vesper," he told her, giving her one last look before he stepped past her. "Ma'am."

"Bond?" M asked, and James turned to look at her.

"I need you back."

"I never left." He turned to leave and the older woman watched. Her eyes strayed to the silver necklace he'd dropped in the snow. She stared at it, thinking of the woman who'd worn it, who was probably now asleep in her bedroom in her South Croydon flat.

She allowed herself a few seconds of regret over what she'd done, and over James's admission. He had loved her, would still if she were here today. But that thought was enough to make up her mind. She needed him back, and the woman would be a distraction. It was simple. Her secret would remain a secret.

She turned and walked back into the flat, out of the cold.

**A/N: Hey all, I'm not really fond of leaving notes, but just had to clarify a few things, timeline-wise. I tried to figure out QoS's timeline with little success. Even though at one point it is allegedly 2008, it's clear the film takes place in the weeks and months following CR, ie., from August 2006 onward, so I decided that the last scene in QoS occurs in the wee hours of New Year's Day 2007. As well, a few guest reviewers have been asking about when James is going to appear, and as I cannot PM them back, I thought I'd let you all know that he will not be back in Vesper's life for quite some time. But he will, eventually, don't worry about that. Anyways, thanks to you all for your support and your reviews! -KT**


	9. Chapter 9

The first week of the new year went by quickly for Vesper. She kept up with her journal, began reading the book she'd picked up as well, which had helped her greatly to understand the changes her body was going through, as well as prepare her for what to expect in the future. She was now eating rapaciously, her appetite thriving, and was gaining weight quite steadily.

Dr. Grewal had called to confirm the ultrasound technician's assertions: they hadn't detected any anomalies on the ultrasound. Her baby was, as far as they could tell, completely healthy. The news was the best she could have hoped for, and after hanging up the phone, she brushed away her happy tears unashamedly.

He asked again whether she planned to deliver at home or in hospital and whether she needed a midwife's referral. She was still not sure exactly where she'd be delivering this child, though a homebirth seemed like the best option to her. After setting up an appointment for early February, she told the doctor she'd get back to him about it.

A week and a half into 2007, M called, the sound of the woman's voice at the other end giving Vesper a jolt of fear. But Vesper soon found she had nothing to worry about, as the head of MI6 sounded distracted and tired. Thankfully, she sounded satisfied with Vesper's progress, and the phone call was short.

Her condition was getting nearly impossible to hide, despite the fact that she still had two weeks until she reached her third trimester, and she was starting to feel the strain this growing life was putting on her body. According to the book she was reading, the baby was now over a pound in weight and almost a foot long, and she found this very easy to believe.

Her skin was starting to feel tight around her belly and breasts, though she hadn't yet developed any stretch marks, and she took care to slather it in lotion every chance she got. Her navel was becoming shallower as the days went on, and she was finding it a little harder to get around, what with the growing weight on the front of her and the shortness of breath.

But she still took daily walks, bundling herself up despite the fairly mild and wet London weather. She found herself making little purchases here and there, baby clothes and supplies, though she still felt almost silly buying such things.

She knew this was the 'nesting' instinct kicking in, and as her third trimester loomed it got even stronger. She felt an implacable need to furnish the little corner of her bedroom that would be the baby's, to have everything ready for its impending arrival.

She bought a little cot, not much more than a basket, and laid it on the floor, equipping it with a few soft blankets. She didn't have much use for a big wooden one at this point, anyway, as newborns were tiny and content on whatever soft surface they were lain. Plus, she wanted her child close to her.

The child's movements were getting stronger and stronger, and from time to time, the baby's kicks would actually cause her pain. She spent hours watching her child move beneath her skin, her belly rippling and shifting as the baby tested out its environment, twisting and somersaulting. It was of endless fascination to her, to be able to watch her child, to be able to touch it beneath the thin sheath of flesh that separated them.

Her hips were starting to widen, her joints becoming more and more flexible as her body prepared for the baby's entry. She had gained half a stone in the month since she'd started keeping track of her weight, though a lot of it was likely due to her retention of water, her feet and lower extremities swelling from time to time, making her shoes occasionally uncomfortably tight.

Soon January became February, the weather turning frosty for the first time, and she kept her promise, walking to Dr. Grewal's for her planned check-up. He measured her belly, took her blood pressure, some urine and listened to her baby's heartbeat, and then let her go, assuring her that everything looked well, and making another appointment for her in a month's time.

She had nearly finished furnishing her baby's little area, buying things here and there, one or two at a time so as not to be conspicuous. She had still not made a birth plan, though, or decided where she was going to deliver, though it was not a particular worry for her.

She was determined, now, to avoid the hospital at all costs, not only because of its distance from her home, and the lack of privacy, but also because she was hesitant to involve anyone else in her affairs. Hospital births required the participation of many individuals, and it had been difficult for her to trust even Dr. Grewal. She was also hesitant to involve a midwife, to invite another person into the home that had become like a sanctuary to her.

So as February waned and her child grew, its developing body becoming more and more restricted inside her womb, she began to do more and more research on childbirth, buying every book she could afford. She read voraciously, accounting for every probability and complication. She had no definite plans yet, had made no decision on how her child was going to come into the world, but she wanted to be prepared.

Her third trimester was progressing well, and she was still not uncomfortably large, still able to get around well. She found the fact that a mere ten weeks remained in her pregnancy astounding. As her due date drew nearer, the time seemed to go by quicker and quicker, and she found herself wishing almost that it would slow down, that she could have more time to enjoy it.

But March was soon there and her appointment with Dr. Grewal went well, her blood pressure and fundal height satisfactory and the baby's heart rate and presentation acceptable. She was thirty-two weeks along and the baby was putting on weight quickly now in preparation for its birth. As well, the doctor told her as he felt her abdomen, pushing on it uncomfortably, its head was down, its little bottom pointed up. He informed her that it was unlikely that it would move from this position, which she found reassuring.

She was determined to deliver this baby naturally, though she still had not decided exactly where that would be. Though she still had some time to think about this, as the doctor informed her that she hadn't begun to dilate yet, and it still would be some time before her child was born.

March proceeded sunnily, which made her daily walks enjoyable. She had purchased a new thick coat that helped to conceal her burgeoning belly, and she was pleased that most people she met still remained ignorant of her condition.

Even as wintry weather hit in late March she remained active and mobile, still keeping up with her journal and reading often. She often found herself incapable of refraining from tidying up the flat, from cleaning the bathroom floor-to-ceiling, from arranging the baby's now considerable collection of things.

It was not until March became April and brought with it sun and warmth that she began to feel truly burdened by her child. Her check-up with the doctor went well, everything staying within acceptable levels, her baby still head-down. Her cervix had begun thinning and dilating, though the doctor encouraged her not to be worried by this. Thirty-seven weeks was considered full-term, though most babies remained in the womb for at least a few more weeks after this, the body's preparation for birth often taking quite a while.

Vesper found it hard to believe that she had made it to this point so quickly, and walking home from her appointment, trying very hard to walk and not waddle, having to stop several times to catch her breath, she realised that M had not called since January. She wondered, as she laboriously ascended the steps to her flat, if it had anything to do with the distraction and exhaustion she'd heard in the older woman's voice during their last conversation, and, she thought, as she reached the last step, if it had anything to do with James Bond.

As she entered and removed her coat, slipping off to the toilet to relieve her bladder, she found it hard be concerned about it. In fact, the timing of whatever was keeping M away was rather fortuitous. She could feel that April would be the last month of her pregnancy. She knew, somehow, and she was glad she'd slipped down to the bottom of the list of things M was concerned with.

April was uncharacteristically sunny and dry, though as the days crept by Vesper found herself venturing out less and less. Not only had walking had become difficult, with her bladder having to be emptied often and her feet uncomfortably swollen, but not even her thick coat could hide the fact that she was with child anymore. The skin over her abdomen was stretched unpleasantly taut, and she was mildly vexed to see a few angry red stretch marks developing on either side of the rounding.

She was often out of breath, the baby's girth pressing into her diaphragm, and she began to wish, as the days began to crawl by, her daily routine becoming more and more difficult, that this would be over soon. She longed for the early days of her pregnancy when everything had been so easy and she'd felt so light. The baby's movements slowed as the days went on, its growing body becoming cramped inside her womb, but it stubbornly remained active, squirming and protesting against its shrinking environment.

Two and a half weeks into April, though, she got some relief, when the baby's head began dropping into the birth canal. She found herself unable even to become flustered at the obviously impending birth of her child, it was so much easier to breathe. Though as the days went on she began to feel more and more pressure in her pelvic area and she was shocked one day to discover blood on the toilet paper.

This bloody show told her that soon her pregnancy would come to an end, and as the thought took hold, a sort of calm fell over her. Her conscious mind took a backseat, leaving her instinctual one to make the decisions. She stepped out one last time one evening under cover of darkness, picking up the few things she needed. She did not even realise until later that she had made up her mind.

And so, when the pains began the evening of the twenty-third of April, she unconcernedly went to bed, knowing she'd need her rest for the day ahead of her. She would not involve anyone else in the birth of her child. It would come into the world only in the presence of its mother, in the tiny flat that had become their home.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Her sleep that night was restless, and as the pains became more frequent and strong, she found she could no longer stay in bed. So she rose, despite the fact it was barely five o'clock and the city outside was still ensconced in darkness.

She walked the flat, only stopping when the contractions hit, leaning against the wall or counter until they passed. After some time she could no longer walk for very long, the pains bending her in half, pulling her down to her knees, leaving her unable to think or even breathe. In between them she began to get her supplies ready, boiling the scissors and string and placing them atop the pile of towels.

She breathed through the worst of them, rocking her pelvis, moaning quietly. She couldn't tell how much time passed and was shocked to look up and see that the sun had risen, the rainclouds that had covered the sky the day before now just a thin mist.

She stood at the window watching as the colours changed and the sky brightened, the beautiful display helping her to keep her mind off the lengthening contractions, which had become closer together, allowing her very little time to recover.

A particularly strong one hit her as she stood there and she had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out. She bent over, struggling to keep breathing as the strong muscles constricted.

When it was over she opened her eyes to discover her legs and the carpet beneath her were sodden—her waters had broken. She looked at the dark spot for a few seconds, breathing deeply, and turned, grabbing the towels and supplies off the counter and making her way to the bathroom.

She ran herself a bath, another contraction hitting her as the bathtub filled, and was all too happy to slip into the warmth of the water, the heat calming her.

The buoyancy was exactly what she needed, allowing her to bend and flex her hips, and she soon found that she could not resist bearing down when the pain hit, pulling her knees up on either side of her and pushing hard.

From that point on she remembered little, the increasingly strong and closely-spaced contractions clouding her vision and mind. The instinct to push was so strong she could concentrate on nothing else as she felt her child moving down through her body. Time ceased to matter, her body seemingly acting of its own accord.

After a time, a burning pain registered and she looked down to see the baby's head crowning, shock momentarily bringing her out of the daze. She reached down to feel the top of its skull, the little dusting of wet dark hair soft beneath her fingers. Her first contact with her child filled her with relief and wonder, and she took a second to rejoice that this was almost over.

She pulled herself up onto her knees just before another contraction began and she could only push through the burning pain, moaning as her child's head exited her body. She reached down as she pushed, supporting the baby's head as it turned to the side, its shoulders following, albeit stubbornly.

She gave another hard push and watched as her child's shoulders cleared, and the baby turned face-up, now out to its waist. She felt all breath leave her when she saw its face for the first time, _his face_, for seconds later she reached down without thinking and grasped the baby beneath the arms, pulling firmly but evenly, and she felt as though everything dropped out of her as her son entered the world.

Her son was born, his arms and legs moving vigorously in the water, a gush of brownish fluid following him out of the birth canal. And as she held him, stunned, he opened his eyes under the water, and she saw that they were blue, like hers and like James's.

She lifted him out, cradling him to her chest, and as his lungs breathed air for the first time he let out a wail, slightly wet but strong and loud, and she found herself laughing and sobbing at the same time.

Ω

She could have sat there all day, clutching her son to her, calming his cries, the two of them touching for the first time. But soon the water began to cool and she knew she must get out of the bath, placing her son on the soft white towel she'd lain out for him, wiping the sticky white vernix off his pinkening skin. She quickly tied off the surprisingly tough purplish white umbilical cord, cutting it, and like that they were separated.

She wrapped the towel around his tiny body, picking him up and cradling him to her as she sat down on the edge of the bathtub. She could not take her eyes off his tiny face, his dark blue eyes now closed, secure and warm in his mother's arms. She barely registered the delivery of the placenta, pulling the massive purple organ out and placing it in the plastic bowl she'd taken out of the cupboard.

She looked at it curiously for a few seconds, the network of dark arteries that webbed out over it, that had nourished her son for all these months, and left the bathroom. She was bleeding now, and would, she knew, for the next few weeks as the wound the placenta had left on the inside of her womb slowly healed itself.

When she had clothed her bottom half, she settled on the bed with her son, placing him on a pillow in her lap. She brushed his cheek softly and his head turned toward her breast, and with startling strength for someone so small and new, he quickly latched on and began taking his first meal.

She watched him in awe, caressing the soft hair on his head that, now dry, had lightened considerably. She smiled at his flaxen head, in complete disbelief that he had come from her, had only mere hours ago been happily enveloped in her womb, and now lay before her, a little person who breathed and moved.

He was no longer the genderless foetus that moved inside her, he was her son, and she thanked the fates for the ease of his birth, for his health and vigour and hearty appetite. It had been a perfect entry into the world, negated only by the absence of his father, which, as she fell more and more in love with this new life, she thought of less and less.

James was not here, no, but as her son finished his meal and she sat him up in front of her, patting his tiny terry-clad back, she found that it did not hurt as she thought it would. His absence would always be palpable, but with her son to focus on, it was less profound.

Soon she would have to clothe him in the tiny garments and the nappies that she'd bought, clean the stump of cord that still hung out of his navel, tied off with string. But as she laid him down beside her on the soft sheets, reclining so that her face was inches from his, watching him as he fell very softly to sleep, she thought very little of the future.

It was nearing noon now, and the exertion of the morning began to catch up with her, the hormones that had been released filling her with a calm unlike no other. She drifted off, her son's tiny face the last thing she saw before sleep took her.


	11. Chapter 11

She woke a couple of hours later to the sound of a baby's soft cries and she fleetingly wondered if she'd left the television on. Then she opened her eyes to find a small pair of startlingly blue eyes staring back at her. It all came back to her at once, the events of the morning and the evening before, and she reached out to touch her son's face, a gleeful smile forming on her lips.

She could not believe she had done it; she had brought him into the world on her own. She felt a burst of pride at this thought, at her own tenacity, at this little wonder that she had created.

She watched as he fussed softly, his small arms and legs flailing, the towel she'd wrapped him in falling open. She could only watch him in wonder as he moved, stroking his perfect little pink body. She kissed one of his little fisted hands, smiling in amazement when he grasped the finger she'd placed in his palm.

He was perfect. She counted ten fingers and ten toes, noted his good muscle tone. His blue eyes were clear and bright, and as she moved they looked at her, struggling to focus. She smiled at him and could not resist leaning in to drop a kiss on his tiny face.

She could not believe that he was hers, that she would get to have him and love him for the rest of her life. She felt almost like a child with a new toy, except that this toy moved and breathed, and would grow and learn and she would be able to teach him things. All the doubts she had had about her own ability as a mother fell away as she picked him up, his body firm and warm in her arms. She folded the towel around him again and placed him in her lap, watching in wonder as he took his second meal, his little mouth latching on strongly.

When he was done she simply held him, watching as his eyes looked around almost curiously, his tiny chest rising and falling. He looked at her face, and her heart swelled when he seemed almost to recognise her, his tiny brow screwing up in concentration as he stared at her intently.

She could have spent the day this way, just looking at him, watching as he moved and breathed, but as the afternoon stretched on she decided she'd best be getting up and about.

She first dressed herself in a cotton pyjama top, then lifted her son up, groaning as her aching body protested. Every muscle from her knees to her shoulders was tender and sore from her earlier exertion, and with some difficulty she carried him to the wardrobe and pulled an impossibly tiny nappy from the package, placing him back down on the bed to fasten it on him. She took care to avoid the stump of cord, which had darkened considerably in the hours since his birth, the loop of string still in place.

She cleaned the end of it delicately with some rubbing alcohol and a swab before dressing him in a blue and white striped cotton sleepsuit. He wasn't particularly fond of this new sensation of cloth on skin, fussing a bit as she dressed him, moving against the constraining clothing almost stubbornly.

When he was dressed in his first outfit, she looked down at his little body, his arms and legs still curled up in front of him as they had been in the womb. He looked so sweet that tears sprung to her eyes involuntarily. She wiped them away, laughing as she lifted him up into her arms, kissing his soft head.

She walked over to the window to look out at the city, bathed in afternoon sun. It was nearing three o'clock now, the first day of her son's life moving along quickly, and she smiled at the few people milling about on this sunny Tuesday.

She looked down at them, wanting to show her new treasure to them, to anyone. It was then that a thought entered and she had to take a deep breath to hold it at bay. She lifted her son from her shoulder and cradled him in her arms, smiling as his crystal blue eyes looked up at her again. She tried very hard to focus on him, and not the absence of the one person she suddenly so desperately wanted to present him to.

She stood there for some time, holding him, letting his tiny breaths and movements calm her. And she soon found that desperation dwindling, slipping away, and she began to think rationally again.

First, she had to dispose of the placenta, which she found still sitting in its bowl, the blood inside it beginning to clot and darken, and then drain the now-cold bathwater, still tinged pinkish-brown.

She then made herself some tea and a sandwich, needing to refuel her body. All this she did with one arm while she held her son with the other, and she was surprised to find it wasn't particularly difficult.

She did enjoy the feeling of lightness that had been brought back to her, that ability to walk and move without hindrance from the many pounds of baby and tissue that had been inside her. It was odd to be back to normal again, to be just a sole person, no longer a vessel for her gestating child.

When she had finished eating and had tidied the place to her satisfaction, the babe in her arms began yawning, his eyes starting to droop, and she took him to the bedroom, placing him in the little Moses basket cot she'd purchased for him. He seemed to approve of it, falling asleep soon after she pulled the soft blanket over him.

As she watched him sleep she thought of the way her father had done the same to her, when she was a child. He had missed her mother terribly, as she had for a few desperately sad years, but unlike her he had never truly gotten over it. He would sit next to her bed some nights, silent as she slept, and from time to time she would wake and find him there. He would comfort her, kiss her head and pull the covers around her, and she would drift off again.

And at once she felt such a longing for that man that tears burned at the corners of her eyes. She wished so fervently that he was still alive, that she could take her son to him and show him, that she could bask in the pride of making him a grandfather, that he could help her to forget the absence of the man who'd given her this gift.

And then an idea hit her, as she sat beside her sleeping son in the waning afternoon light, the sun threatening to set on this auspicious day. Henry Lynd had been her hero and her friend, and she had loved her father so dearly. Even when he sank into drink and she had to care for him like he had once cared for her she had been his fierce defender, had been so resolutely certain that he would rise up again.

She knew if not for him she would have never been educated, would have never risen as far in her career as she had, and she would have consequently never met James Bond and bore his son. As soon as the decision was made a smile touched her lips. She softly touched her son's tiny button nose, as if bestowing the label upon him.

Her father had given everything for her, so she would give her son his name. He would be Henry James Lynd no matter what her surname was now, legally, and she would raise him to make her father proud.


	12. Chapter 12

The first few days of her son's life went by quite serenely for Vesper. She slept when Henry slept, fed him when they woke, ate and bathed and tended to her own needs when she could. She liked to be near him at most times, holding him against her, watching as he moved and breathed and gurgled. She liked to take him over to the window and show him the city, his eyes goggling at the bright tableau.

His umbilical cord began to shrivel after a few days, and was now just a desiccated brown stump. She cleaned it every day, knowing it would soon fall off and the last vestige of the connection between them would be lost. He ate steadily, nursing every few hours, and he seemed to be thriving outside the womb.

She gave her doctor a call the day after Henry's birth, and after assuring the nurses that the two of them were completely healthy, was given an appointment for the next day. She knew it was prudent to see the doctor, despite their apparent well-being.

She had purchased a baby sling before her son's birth, though she hadn't been sure how much use she would get out of it, being as though she needed to keep his existence a secret. But she pulled it out of the box nonetheless and was pleased to find he didn't hate it, promptly falling asleep after she slipped him into it. She found that she liked it as well, being able to keep her son close and also have the use of both her arms.

The baby slept nearly the entire way there beneath her thick coat, and the two of them were quickly given a clean bill of health, her son tipping the scales at a healthy three and three tenths kilograms.

The doctor reminded her she would need to register her son within forty-two days of his birth. She frowned at this, having forgotten about the requirement. She would be making his existence a matter of public record, which meant it would be all-too-accessible for anyone keeping track of her. Although, she remembered, M had not contacted her in quite some time, and Vesper suspected her attentions lied elsewhere at the time.

So, she climbed on the bus one day, her week-old son snuggled beneath her coat despite the warm weather, and went to register his birth at Croydon Town Hall. She was mildly dismayed to find that being unmarried, the baby's father absent, meant that only her name would appear on his birth certificate. Not that she had planned to put James's name on it, as this would likely raise some flags, but she was irked by the fact the option was taken from her.

But when she left the register office later, her son's certificate clutched in her hand, the baby still sleeping soundly inside her coat, she resolved that it had probably been for the best. She would have been tempted by the option, and it would have been imprudent.

Her son's first two weeks of life went by uneventfully, which suited her quite well. She began to wonder what all the fuss was about, why so many new parents lamented their lack of sleep. Her son rarely cried, only fussing softly when he was hungry or wet, and was a sound sleeper, waking during the night only to eat and then nod off again.

Her body had recovered quite well from the birth, her uterus and abdomen firming up quite quickly, and she was glad to see the stretch marks were less noticeable now. The discharge had cleared up, no longer even tinted pink, and her body eventually began to feel like her own again. Her nipples were sore and cracked from her son's constant meals, her breasts often feeling full and tender, but she hadn't encountered any other complications, any infections or deficiencies. She knew she was fortunate that everything had gone so well, though she knew her youth had a lot to do with it.

But three weeks into her son's life she got a rude awakening one afternoon, quite literally, when he let out a miserable wail from his cot, pulling her quickly out of sleep and filling her with panic. She picked him, comforting his surprisingly loud cries, bouncing him and patting his back.

And so began the worst bout of colic he would experience, and, it turned out, the last he would experience at number eight, Gulliver Court.

It happened one afternoon, the baby finally falling asleep after countless hours of bobbing and rocking, of feeding and winding and soothing words. She had unplugged the telephone the day before as a precaution when he had fallen into a rare deep slumber, and had forgotten to plug it back in, as it rarely rang much these days anyway.

She was sitting on the floor beside his cot, hesitant to move lest he wake again. She was truly exhausted, having slept very little since he started his little fit several days ago. It seemed as though every time she closed her eyes an anguished cry woke her, and she could only lift her son up, soothing him. She felt awful for him, and helpless that she could not pacify his obvious discomfort.

She had leaned back against the bed, her eyes starting to droop, when she heard it. Her eyes snapped open and she looked into the cot, expecting the see his little face screwed up in agony. But he was still sleeping peacefully. Then she heard it again, and the sound was so foreign to her, it took a second to register what it was.

It was a knock at the door, her door, she soon realised, as a second later she heard it again. This time it was accompanied by a woman's voice calling her name.

She froze, her blood going cold, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest, for she soon recognised the voice, and, with a spike of terrifying panic, realised the woman was calling her name. And it was not her new, false name, the one she still had not gotten used to after eight months, but the name she was born with.

M was at her door. Vesper struggled to stand, terror flooding her. She managed to make her legs work somehow, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind her softly. She looked around the kitchen for any incriminating evidence of her son's existence, thankfully finding none. She silently thanked her fastidiousness as she tiptoed toward the door.

She paused before the door, hoping beyond hope that she would assume Vesper was out and leave. But a second later her hopes were dashed, as M knocked again loudly, calling her name.

"Miss Lynd," she said, "I have a key. I'm coming in." There was then the sound of a key in a lock and Vesper reacted almost without thinking. She jumped forward to open the door, and there stood M, wearing a tan coat over her sharp black suit and looking very surprised.

"You're home," she said, looking the younger woman's tired form up and down curiously. "I've been calling you. You didn't answer, I was worried."

"I'm fine," Vesper told her, aware the dark circles under her eyes said otherwise. "I unplugged the phone to take a nap, I just forgot to plug it back in."

M took this in disbelievingly, peering past Vesper into the flat. "I'm sorry I haven't been in touch," M said, pocketing the key she was holding, "there was a bit of a situation, but it's been resolved."

"Is everything okay?" Vesper asked.

"Yes," M replied, and it was obvious she knew exactly who she was asking after. "Are you?"

"I told you," Vesper said, impatience beginning to bloom, "I'm fine. I just…I haven't been sleeping very well." She glanced at the bedroom door surreptitiously and quieted the small rise of alarm when M seemed to notice her impatience.

"Are you sure?" the woman asked. She took a tiny step toward Vesper, encroaching on the threshold, and for one terrifying second Vesper thought she was going to force herself in.

"Yes," she said, adamantly, hoping the tone of her voice would convince the other woman.

But she needn't have bothered, as mere seconds later it was all over.

Her son's piercing cry suddenly filled the air, unmistakeable despite the closed bedroom door. M's head snapped toward the sound, then back at Vesper. She had never seen the woman look so acutely astonished, so completely and utterly rattled, that Vesper felt a thrill of satisfaction in spite of everything.

Curiosity overcoming her bewilderment, M stepped in, closing the door behind her, and Vesper could only sag dejectedly as the woman strode past her. She headed toward the bedroom, opening the door tentatively, and Vesper moved quickly to follow her.

She entered the room with Vesper close behind, watching as the older woman glanced around the room in surprise, at the various baby supplies and clothing strewn about. She approached the cot on the bedroom floor, the source of the loud, anguished cries. When she sighted the infant inside it, she turned back toward Vesper slowly, fixing her with a gaze of utter and complete astonishment.

Vesper stepped around the woman, pushing back the shame and guilt that came to her involuntarily, and picked up her son from his bed. She clutched his tiny body to her chest desperately, kissing him and comforting his cries, bouncing him and patting his back.

She glanced up to see M watching her curiously, her hands in now in her pockets. She was still obviously surprised, but a rueful smirk had crept onto her lips as she watched the two of them. Not until the baby's cries began to abate, comforted by his mother's embrace, did she speak.

"How long did you think you'd be able to keep this a secret?" she asked, the amusement in her voice sending a wave of irritation through Vesper.

"I don't know," she replied hotly. She kissed her son's soft head, frowning at the woman. "Do you blame me?"

M smiled humourlessly. "I suppose not." Her eyes strayed to the infant in Vesper's arms, now quiet, his blue eyes struggling to stay open. "Bond wasn't aware?"

Vesper shook her head.

M nodded, seemingly satisfied. She glanced at the baby sympathetically. "Come on," she said, turning to leave the room, "I'll make us some tea."

Vesper had no choice but to follow her.


	13. Chapter 13

Vesper Lynd sat at her kitchen table, her son now slumbering peacefully in her arms. M handed her a mug of tea, and she took it begrudgingly, setting it on the table in front of her.

She slipped her left hand around the cup as M sat down opposite her. Her son was a warm, solid weight on her shoulder; a shield, almost, a talisman between her and M, keeping away what she represented.

"I've forgotten how small they can be," M said after some time. Vesper looked up at her, her fingers lightly stroking her son's back. "How old is he?"

"Not quite three weeks," Vesper replied, trying to keep the resentment out of her voice. The woman's presence was testing her already fragile patience.

M nodded, taking a sip of her tea. "You weren't aware of your condition when you left the hospital," she said, looking up at Vesper. It was more a statement than a question.

"No," she said, "it was too early."

M nodded. "I see," she said, cradling the mug in her hands. "It must have been quite a shock for you."

"Yes," Vesper stated, warily, frowning at the woman across from her. She nuzzled her son's blond hair, which had lightened considerably in the weeks since his birth.

"Well, I'm very sorry you had to go through it alone," M said matter-of-factly, and Vesper looked away. "It must have been difficult."

"I suppose," Vesper replied defiantly. "Am I supposed to believe you actually care?" She was not ready to submit to her sympathy, not yet.

M smiled genuinely at the younger woman, taking a sip from her tea. "I'm glad to see your spirit has returned, Miss Lynd. I daresay I was quite worried about you there for a while."

Vesper tried very hard not to roll her eyes. "Thank you," she said. The baby began to stir, fussing quietly for a few seconds before quieting again. Vesper rubbed his back, stroking the soft green cotton of the suit she'd dressed him in today as M watched.

"What did you call him?" the woman asked softly once the baby had fallen still again.

"Henry," Vesper replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Henry James."

M nodded. "Henry James Bond?" she asked, mildly amused.

"Lynd," Vesper replied quickly, her eyes bold. "I hope you don't mind. I know it's not supposed to be my name anymore."

"Henry Lynd," M recited. "It's lovely." Vesper looked up at her in surprise. It was not a word she'd heard the woman use in kind before, and it was unsettling.

"Thank you," she replied earnestly, "it was my father's name."

"Ah," the older woman replied, setting down her tea on the table. Vesper watched her, the silence that bloomed between them bringing home the reality of the situation. She hugged her son closer as dread began to creep in.

"What's going to happen to us?" Vesper asked after some time, and M seemed almost to be expecting the question.

"Well, I'm not going to take him away. You don't have to worry," she stated. "It's not my place."

"But you're going to make us leave London," Vesper finished. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name.

"Yes," M said, after a pause. "It's the best option for all involved."

Vesper sighed, anger budding in her breast. "And you're going to continue to keep me a secret from James."

"Yes," the woman replied, no trace of apology in her tone. "Actually, I couldn't tell him even if I wanted to. He's on a mission right now, deep undercover."

Vesper looked up at her, surprised by this admission. "Is he alright?"

"I believe so," M said. "You know Bond," she continued, with a twinkle in her eye, "he's quite adept at getting himself out of sticky situations."

"Yes," Vesper said, giving M a small, reminiscent smile in spite of herself. She could see she was telling the truth, and that she was not going to elaborate on the situation. And she knew James. He was a brilliant agent, and a very intelligent man. He would be fine.

As her smile faded, the futility of her current circumstances began to take hold in her mind. She stroked her son's back idly, looking around the flat, her son's birthplace. It was the home she'd made for the two of them.

And suddenly sadness filled her. She had come to love this quiet little corner of Greater London, had wanted to raise her son in it, take him out into the nearby park, walk him to the nursery school down the street when he was old enough. But it was not to be. They would be moving to a new home, and with it the last possibility of her child's father discovering his son's existence would slip away.

She realised now that she had been entertaining a fantasy that as long as she remained close to James, he would somehow eventually find them. She knew it was stupid, that it was weak, that MI6 had likely taken precautions against exactly that, but it had sustained her nonetheless.

"Where are you sending us?" Vesper asked. Her reverie ended as she now suddenly very much wanted the answer to the question.

M turned the now-empty teacup in her hands for a few seconds before looking up at Vesper.

"Have you ever been to New York?"

Vesper could only laugh incredulously.

"New York?" she asked, looking at the woman with wide eyes. "You're sending us to America?"

"Yes," M said, unapologetic as ever.

_New York_? She'd been hoping she'd be able to stay in England. The thought of moving so far away, away from everything she'd ever known—suddenly Vesper found herself nearly unable to breathe. She stood in one fluid motion, striding over to the window. She stood there, holding her son against her, taking big, deep breaths as she looked out at the grey city.

She loved this city, she loved this country. She wanted her son to be English, like his parents, not raised an ocean away in a city she'd only visited.

After some time she sensed a presence, and she caught sight of M standing at her right, her green-blue eyes gazing out at the city dispassionately.

"You'll have more freedom there," she said softly. "I'll find you a bigger flat, and there will be plenty of opportunities for employment when the time comes." Vesper could not look at her, could not respond to her.

"Although," M said, her voice now soft, "I suggest you wait a little white before going back to work. Five or six months at the very least. I never did, and I regret it terribly." Vesper looked over at the woman, over her son's head, surprised by her candour. Then she looked back out at the quiet street.

Vesper took a big, sad breath and kissed her son's soft head, mentally apologising to him for the circumstances that kept him from the life she wanted for him. There was nothing she could do about them, she could only submit to the wishes of the woman in front of her. She hated it, hated being so powerless and weak, under the thumb of this organisation that cared only about itself.

But the anger and hopelessness faded as acceptance stubbornly began to take hold. She knew M was right. New York would offer her the freedom that London could not, would allow her to finally step out from under the shroud she'd been living.

She would be able to go out with impunity, would be able to work and live in obscurity. She would be able to concentrate exclusively on raising Henry, to focus her attention on him and off the proximity of his father. She sighed deeply, breathing in her son's scent, and glanced at the woman standing beside her.

"Alright," she said.


	14. Chapter 14

M allowed them to stay at number eight for another week, and left Vesper alone to pack and prepare for the journey while she made the arrangements.

That night, as she changed her son's nappy, his now completely shrunken stump of umbilical cord finally fell off, leaving behind a slightly inflamed navel. She picked up the tiny bit of cord, that which had once connected the two of them and suddenly tears threatened to fall.

She quickly cleaned her son's new bellybutton, dressed him and placed him in his cot, before leaving the room so he could sleep. When she got to the living room the tears had begun in full, and she lay down on the sofa, sobbing desolately.

Suddenly she so very yearned for those halcyon early days of her son's life, when it was just the two of them in their quiet little sanctuary, or the days of her pregnancy when she would sit on the sofa, watching his body rippling the skin of her abdomen.

She yearned for those days again, realised now how lucky she'd been, how blessed to be able to spend that time with him, and she wished it could go on. But it would not.

Eventually, her tears dried, and she stood, now spent, and gave one big, sad sigh, gazing around the flat, before joining her son in their bedroom.

The next day she set about packing her belongings and was surprised to find that it did not take very long at all to pack up everything she'd accumulated over the nearly nine months she'd been here. When she was done, she looked at the two suitcases sitting near the door, so forlorn and insignificant that tears burned at the corner of her eyes, and she had to turn away.

M dropped by soon after, handing her the boarding pass and papers she'd need, including a passport for Henry. Vesper opened it to see his little baby face under the iridescent security film, next to his true name, birthdate and birthplace. She thanked M for the document, thankful she had not altered it any way.

M then handed over the keys to her New York flat, as well as the directions on how to get to it, and Vesper looked at the Upper West Side address curiously, unable to believe she'd soon be inhabiting it. The flight was in two days, leaving at one o'clock in the afternoon, and M assured her that a car would be arriving to drive her to the airport before noon.

Vesper laid the documents on the counter as M hovered nearby, Henry wide-awake in Vesper's arms, babbling and vocalising. His bout of colic had calmed down in the days since M's unceremonious visit, and he was once again the happy, thriving baby she hoped he'd continue to be.

Vesper turned and approached the older woman, extending the hand not occupied with her son to her.

"Thank you," she told M, and she tried very hard to convey the fact that she meant it. She knew now that this woman had everyone's best interests at heart, whether they be James's, Henry's or even MI6's. She was caught up in the same machine that Vesper now found herself in, helpless, in a way, to escape it.

M shook her hand firmly, and her eyes flicked to Henry's face, his blue eyes wide and bright today. He was sucking on one of his fists, watching M curiously.

"You're welcome, Miss Lynd," M replied. She released Vesper's hand and reached up to brush the soft blond hair back from Henry's face, smiling at the baby. "And good-bye, young Master Henry. I do hope you have a safe journey."

Henry gurgled in response and Vesper could not help but smile. M stepped back, and Vesper saw a momentarily chink in her armour as the older woman looked them over, the dark-haired, lithe young woman holding her impossibly blond son. Just a little falter. But then, it was gone.

"Good luck, to you both," she said.

"Thank you," Vesper replied, and M turned to leave.

"I'll be in touch," she said before closing the door behind her, and Vesper almost smiled. She wouldn't have expected anything less.

Ω

Over the next two days, Vesper set to saying goodbye to the flat, as well as the rest of South Croydon. She took her son out for a walk in his sling, glad to be finally able to discard the heavy coat, breathing in the fresh May air.

She received several smiles from passers-by as they strained to get a look at the baby in the sling and she obliged them, eventually pulling him out of the carrier and into her arms, showing him around all the sights she had loved.

It was so nice to be able to carry him around in the open with impunity that she was beginning to almost anticipate getting to New York, to be able to take him around in a pram or the sling, for him to play in the park when he got old enough and walk down the street. It had been such a burden keeping his existence a secret all these months, and she hadn't even realised how freeing it would be for her son to be able to go out and enjoy his environment.

The days passed by quickly and soon it was their last day at number eight, their last day in England, and she let the driver in to collect her things, her son sleeping soundly in the sling draped around her. She turned before she followed the man, looking at the flat where Henry's life had begun, now empty and silent.

She allowed herself a few seconds, breathing through the sadness that came to her, threatening to swallow her as the memories came back. Her son's almost serene birth, carrying him around the flat on his first day in the world. Their first few weeks together.

She wiped away the few tears that had fallen, and then she turned to leave, closing the door behind her. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, and followed the driver down to the car.

She had a flight to catch, after all.

Ω

Her son's first plane trip went, thankfully, as smoothly as it possibly could. Henry slept nearly the entire time, awaking only once to eat, and then spending the rest of the flight calmly surveying this new environment from his mother's lap.

The elderly woman beside her was completely smitten, playing and talking with the boy for hours, and Vesper, thankful, gazed out the window at the occasional flashes of blue ocean she'd see beneath the clouds.

She took Henry's behaviour as a good omen, a sign that her decision was the right one. And as they neared the continent of North America, she began to anticipate their landing.

They landed at JFK nearly eight hours after they'd left England at just before three o'clock local time, and Vesper carried her son off the plane, the two of them gaping at the busy terminal.

A car was waiting for her, the driver loading her luggage as she secured her son in the car seat that had been installed for her. And then they were off, Vesper gazing out the window as they made their way through Queens, catching glimpses of the looming island of Manhattan, its impossibly tall buildings gleaming in the spring sun.

It was strange to think of this place as her new home, the place where her son would grow up, and as they exited the Queens Tunnel into Midtown Manhattan, she could only look around in wonder at the vibrant city. It was so much brighter and busier than sleepy, rainy Croydon, the streets full of cars and sidewalks full of people rushing to and fro.

Her son remained quiet as they made their way along Forty-Second Street, passing by Times Square, full of people on this warm afternoon. She smiled down at him beside her, his wide eyes watching as the bright city passed by.

The flat was, as M had promised, much bigger than their Croydon flat. Vesper explored it as the driver carried their bags up to the third-floor unit, leaving them just inside the door. Vesper thanked him, and then he was off, leaving the mother and son alone in their new home.

The flat was part of a brick townhouse, in the middle of a relatively quiet block near Riverside Drive, and had been built in the early thirties or late twenties, which made it much older than the nineteen-fifties brick behemoth her last flat had been part of. But the hardwood floors gleamed, having just been waxed, and the bright white walls had been scrubbed clean, all of the appliances modern.

She was delighted to discover that there were two bedrooms, one furnished for her and the other with a nice wooden cot, changing table and chest of drawers for Henry. She also found that, like her flat in Croydon had been, the cupboards and refrigerator were well-stocked and the telephone and television were hooked up, as well.

She smiled at Henry as she lifted him out of the car seat. He was beginning to fuss, and she quickly changed his wet nappy on the new changing table, marvelling at how it expedited the whole process. When he was dry and happy again, she held him to her chest as she stepped over to the window that looked out into the sunny courtyard behind the building.

The view from his room, and it turned out, from hers was quite nice, and she proceeded to give her son a tour of their new home, showing him around her bedroom and the spacious living room with the big window facing out onto the street. The black-and-white tiled bathroom was pristine, with a big claw-footed bathtub and a beautiful porcelain sink.

She sat down on the sofa to feed him, watching as the people walked by outside, rushing home from their jobs. It was so strange to be so far away from everything she had ever known, to be expected to integrate herself into this community, but she was also surprised at how freeing it felt.

No one here knew her, knew of her past deeds or misdeeds, of her fateful affair with her son's father, or that she was here on the dole of the British Secret Service. They would look at her and see a young English mother with her cherubic blond son and assume she was a young professional, or perhaps a stay-at-home mother and wife of one, and would not give it a second thought.

She would get good references, she knew, from the Treasury once M undoubtedly spoke with them, and it would not be difficult to acquire a fairly lucrative position when the time came. She would be able to pay her own rent, pay for things for her son. She could be independent here, finally her own person, her false name the only remnant of that time.

She smiled, stroking her son's head as he fed, watching as his eyes moved around. Occasionally they would settle on her face, and now nearly a month old they were better able to focus. Recognition often dawned on his little face when he saw her, and she could not help but smile and babble to him when it did.

It made everything better, to see that he knew her and was getting used to the fact that she was his mother. As he got older she knew this bond would only strengthen, and she found herself becoming excited at the thought of the months and years ahead of them.

When he was done, she sat him in her lap and patted his little back, giggling when he let out a wet little belch. Then she stood, holding him in front of her, facing out so he could see, and went over to the window.

People were still rushing past, walking dogs and riding bikes, some in tailored suits and others in workout gear. His little eyes went wide as they gazed out the window, struggling to focus on the fast-moving bodies, and she smiled and kissed his head.

"This is our new home, sweetheart," she whispered to him, "do you like it?"

Henry didn't reply, of course, but continued to look out at the street wide-eyed, rapt by the hustle and bustle of his new hometown.

She took that as a yes, and smiled.


	15. Chapter 15

As afternoon stretched into early evening and the shadows began to lengthen, both Henry's and Vesper's eyelids began to become heavy. The jetlag had finally caught up with her, and as it was nearly midnight now in London and she had hardly slept the night before, she found it very hard to keep her eyes open as she tucked her son into his new bed.

He promptly fell asleep and she hesitantly left his darkening room, slipping out into the still-foreign living room and sinking onto the sofa. It was very quiet in the flat, the stream of people past the window having petered out, and the exhaustion was becoming very hard to fight off.

She tried, though. Because as night began to fall the optimism she'd felt in the sun began to ebb away, and found herself hesitant to sleep in a new bed. She missed her bedroom in South Croydon, missed having Henry close by in his little basket. She'd not yet purchased a baby monitor, as she had had no use for one previously, and wasn't keen on sleeping so far away from him.

But she soon found herself nodding off on the sofa, and she hesitantly made her way towards the room nonetheless.

She stopped first to check on Henry, who was still sound asleep. It was nearing eight o'clock now and she knew he would be awake in six hours or so to eat. She kissed him softly on the nose, then exited his room, taking care to leave both her and his doors open so she could hear him if he should cry.

She pulled back the covers of her bed and changed clothes quickly, as the olive-green sheets were beginning to look very inviting indeed.

She climbed in, looking out her window at the darkening courtyard. She was suddenly missing London very much. It was funny how nightfall brought on those feelings, that homesick nostalgia, driving home just how alone she truly was. She was alone in a city where she knew no one, had no roots.

But, she knew, tomorrow would be a new day and this was a warm, vibrant, busy city. And it was out there for her and Henry to discover.

There would be plenty of time to get accustomed to it, to get used to calling this home.

So as the bustling metropolis outside her window carried on, coming alive as the sun went down, she drifted off to asleep.

Ω

As expected, her son woke her near two with his hungry cries, and she was stricken with the momentary confusion one finds upon waking in a bed not their own.

She fetched him from his room and brought him to her bed to feed him, then laid him beside her when he was done. Now sated, he nodded off, and she was helpless to follow.

She woke before him that morning, leaving him to rest, and went to the kitchen to make some breakfast. The sun was beginning to come up, and the sky was cloudless. It was going to be another sunny spring day in New York City.

Vesper smiled. As much as she'd loved London, she had always loved the sun, and it was likely she would be getting a lot more of it here.

She set about unpacking their belongings as Henry slept, putting away her clothes in her wardrobe, and filling his drawers with his little garments.

Henry slept until seven, waking up rather peacefully. She smiled at his sleepy little face, his eyes blinking tiredly, and quickly changed and dressed him for the day.

She nursed him as she watched the news on CNN, which she had done countless times before in Britain, but it was different now that she lived in this country. As the news anchor went on about Senator John McCain on the campaign trail for an election that was not for another year and a half, and Florida moving up its presidential primary, she could only shake her head in wonder.

It was one thing observing American politics from afar, but now she was so close to all of it. It involved her, in a way, even if she could not yet vote. She was still a British citizen, of course, but the time would possibly come in the future when she'd seek citizenship in this country.

When her son was sated, she took him around the flat, showing him the view. It was nearing eight o'clock and people were out and about, the morning run in full swing.

There were dog-walkers and pram-pushers, joggers and children in prep school uniforms. There were also men and women in expensive suits, all rushing past, moving quickly, all early birds trying to get the worm. It was such a different pace than she was used to.

At half past eight, as she was preparing to take her son out for his first walk round New York City, there came a knock at the door. Vesper froze. She was obviously not expecting anyone, hadn't been informed that any would be dropping by.

She stepped over to the door and peered through the peephole, surprised to see a young woman's face on the other side.

"Who is it?" Vesper called, her son clutched to her chest.

"My name is Christina," the girl replied, and Vesper detected a hint of an as yet unidentifiable European accent, "I've been sent to help you."

Frowning, Vesper opened the door slowly, keeping the chain secured, and looked at the girl through the crack in the door. She was young, twenty or so, with a pink, round face and a great deal of curly yellow hair. The girl looked up at Vesper with mild surprise.

"You're Laura, right?" the girl asked, and Vesper hesitantly nodded. "M sent me," the girl said, lowering her voice and glancing around the corridor. "She thought you might need some help."

_M, _Vesper thought, _of course she did._ Vesper set about one-handedly closing the door to remove the chain, and hesitantly opened it again, looking at the girl.

"She didn't mention she was sending anyone," Vesper said, and the girl shrugged.

"She thought you might need some help with Henry," she said brightly. "I have good references."

Just then, the telephone in Vesper's flat rang for the first time, and she turned, looking at it. She looked back at the girl, sighed, and motioned for the girl to enter.

"Come in," Vesper said, closing the door behind her. "This is Henry," she said, pointing to the baby she held against her.

"Hi, Henry," Christina said, smiling at him as Vesper reached for the phone.

"Is she there yet?" came M's before Vesper could even say hello. Vesper rolled her eyes.

"Yes, she just arrived," Vesper said, leading the girl over to the sofa. "It's M," she whispered to the girl and Christina nodded.

"I would have appreciated it if you'd told me earlier you were sending someone," Vesper told her, when she'd stepped into the corridor, out of earshot of the girl. "I would have told I'm fine on my own."

"Perhaps for the time being," M's voice came back. "But you will need some help, in the future. It's not easy finding nannies you can trust in New York. This girl's father works for us," M said, and, surprised, Vesper turned to look at the young blonde sitting on her sofa.

"So she can be trusted. She lives just down the street from you. I thought it wise to introduce her to you now so she can get acquainted with the both of you," M went on. "She can help you around the flat, as well, if need be. We'll pay her salary until you're back at work."

Vesper sighed, still watching the girl. She hadn't put any thought into what she was going to do with her son when she went back to work. She had expected that M would take care of it for her, but not as quickly as she had.

Her first impression of the girl had been one keen to work and to please. She'd arrived early and wasn't shy, and seemed amiable enough. And, it was true, if this girl would possibly be caring for Henry for days at a time, it would be practical for the baby to be allowed to get familiar with her.

"So?" came M's voice in her ear, pulling her from her thoughts. "If she's not a good fit, I can find someone else." M paused, her voice softening, "It can be desperately lonely raising a child on your own Miss Lynd. I know you're starting to understand that, and I also know that you are fiercely independent. But it will be very beneficial to have someone in your life you can trust and depend on, don't you agree?"

Vesper sighed, looking down at her son, and then back over at the girl, still sitting on the sofa, looking out the window quietly.

"I suppose," Vesper replied, sighing, "I'll see how the day goes."

"Splendid," M said, "I'll be in touch."

Smiling in spite of herself, Vesper hung up the phone and approached the girl on the sofa.

Ω

As it turned out, Vesper had very little to worry about. The girl, Christina, a German émigré who had moved to New York at the age of ten with her parents and younger brother, was great with Henry. Vesper reluctantly handed her son to her, soon after getting off the phone with M. She was a natural.

She held him, walking around the flat as Vesper liked to do, and the boy did not fuss or cry. He had only ever been held by his mother and by the doctor back in London, but he took to the girl right away, and she to him.

Christina, Vesper later found out, was nineteen years old and had graduated high school the year before, and was forgoing university for a few years, much to her mother's consternation, in order to earn money in the meantime as a nanny for several wealthy clients.

She was also very knowledgeable about what sort of things babies needed, detailing for Vesper all the toys and mats and chairs she should get for him. Vesper listened as Christina explained her various theories on babies and toddlers, and how to teach them and handle their tantrums. Vesper could only listen quietly as the girl went on, she was so passionate and well-informed.

So Vesper took Christina along on her and Henry's first walk out in New York City. Vesper wore Henry in his sling, taking him out from time to time and carrying him.

Christina recommended she get a front-facing carrier so that Henry could see, and a buggy as well, (or stroller as she called it) and directed them to a baby goods store the next block over.

Several hours later, arms laden with goods, they stepped out, taking a cab back to the flat to set up the toys and various contraptions. When they were done Vesper could only look around the living room and Henry's bedroom in wide-eyed wonder, astounded at just how many things one little baby could require.

Vesper found it was nice to have someone to help her out, to do the washing up while she fed Henry and tidy the place up while she made dinner. The girl was also fairly easy to talk to, was funny in a dry sort of way, and as the day went on Vesper found that she and the girl got on quite well.

So, later that evening, after Christina had left, when M called her, despite the fact that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning London time, she informed her that the day had gone well and Vesper would not be opposed to having the girl stay on.

M sounded very pleased indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

Henry Lynd turned one month old four days into their stay in New York City, and Christina showed up that morning with a tiny cake and party hats for all of them. Vesper thought it a bit much, but was delighted nonetheless, and the two women helped the wide-eyed baby blow out his single candle.

Vesper set upon writing in her journal again as soon as they were settled. She had been attempting to keep up with it, and had given James a very detailed account of Henry's birth, and the few weeks afterwards. But once the colic started, and M subsequently discovered her son's existence, she'd only had time to make a few short entries. There had been very little time to write when she had to pack up and travel to a new country, and then get oriented in a new city.

She also purchased a couple of cameras upon arriving in New York, after it occurred to her that the only picture she had of her son was the one on his passport. So she quickly remedied that, picking up a digital camera soon after they arrived.

Her son had grown so much even in the first few weeks after his birth and she wanted to be able to look back at the photos in the future, to have evidence that he actually had been that small. These early months were so precious, she didn't want to forget even a second of it.

So she set about photographing her son every chance she got, every new thing he did and new face he made captured by the camera. She had also purchased a Polaroid camera, after spotting it in the store and getting an idea. She took a Polaroid of her son every week to detail Henry's growth for James, pasting it into the journal.

M called often to check in on Vesper and the boy, and to ensure that Christina's tenure as nanny was working out well. She also gave Vesper the name of a very reputable paediatrician, setting up an appointment for a check-up for Henry.

Vesper could only accept the woman's favours graciously, not only because she had very little resources of her own, but also because it seemed like M was almost pleased to do these things for her. She knew that despite her stalwart outward appearance, there had to be some measure of guilt the older woman felt over depriving her best agent of the opportunity to see his son grow up. She had seen it a few times, that little waver, just a little chink in her armour. But it never lasted long.

So Vesper took all the aid she could, from M and from Christina, trying very hard to resist that urge to withdraw again from society, to retreat back into that insular life that she and Henry had been living before coming to New York.

It helped that Christina was not curious by nature, nor was she particularly wistful or romantic. She was practical and hard-working, and left Vesper to her own devices most times. She asked no questions about Henry's father, or about Vesper's past. She was content to simply care for the boy and keep the flat clean, making idle chit-chat with Vesper about her own life, about her goals and experiences and family life. This suited Vesper quite well.

Vesper was starting to anticipate the Christina's arrivals in the morning, as she had boundless energy and good spirits, and was smitten with the boy. It was quite nice to have another person to depend on and defer to, and to help around the flat.

Days began to go by quickly as they set up this routine, and soon it was June, the weather becoming warmer and warmer as the weeks went on.

Henry was growing quickly now, his little body starting to fill out and his white-blond hair getting longer and thicker. As June went on, he became even more vocal and coordinated, his arms and legs no longer moving about so jerkily. He seemed more aware of his environment, his eyes now much more developed, his face bright and curious, and she often found him examining faces and objects almost pensively.

He now obviously recognised her face, and was starting to recognise Christina's as well, and one day in mid-June, as she played with him on the sofa after an afternoon feeding, he miraculously smiled back at her.

She gasped, her eyes going wide, and Henry, obviously finding this expression quite comical indeed, smiled again. Vesper found her throat tightening as he grinned gummily at her, and she brushed back the happy tears that fell.

Her heart seemed to swell almost to bursting with each successive milestone he reached. She had thought the love she felt for him upon his birth would nearly swallow her, it was so instinctual and intense, she had not thought it possible that she could love him any more.

But soon after his first smile, a few days before turning two months old, when he laughed out loud for the first time, she found herself dissolving into sobbing laughter at him, at his guileless, full-throated laughter, completely devoid of all inhibition.

It was the sweetest thing in the world to see her son happy, to see him learning and developing and discovering his world. She began to look forward to each day with him, to see what new thing he might do, or even just to peek into his cot in the morning and find him awake and smiling before she'd even had a chance to wipe the sleep from her eyes.

Christina continued to stop by for a few hours each day, though she often took the weekends off. Vesper thought it best to give the girl some time for socialising and doing the things a teenager ought to be doing, to give her some time to be her own person until such time that Vesper was back at work. As well, she didn't want to become too dependent on the young woman quite yet. She wanted time alone with Henry, wanted him to know that she was his mother, and that he was the most important thing in her life.

It had not taken long to adjust to living in New York, although Vesper had to admit she had had so little time to reflect on her life during these hectic days as June turned into July, bringing with it sultry, oppressive humidity and more sun than Vesper had seen in all her days in Gulliver Court.

Her days were so filled with feedings and changings, with strolls down to the park, where she and Christina often took Henry for a picnic lunch, and with tidying and washing up, with trips to the supermarket and attending to her own needs when and if she got the time, that it took her some time before she realised that she'd begun to like it in New York.

She'd not had time, really, yet, to see all the sights, but she'd started to get used to the quicker pace, all those people running to and fro, all trying to get their piece of the American dream. Occasionally she and Christina would go to the library or a museum in the afternoon, but the visits were often cut short by Henry, who would either need feeding or changing, or suddenly be in desperate need of a nap.

She did quite like their flat, as it was quiet and spacious and much more conducive to raising a child than their Croydon flat had been. The fact that Henry had his own bedroom had improved her sleeping habits greatly, and as he began to sleep through the night at three months old, she found herself more rested, which helped her mood greatly and made it much easier to get through the day.

As August rolled in, Henry started to become much more vocal, squealing and cooing and laughing whenever he was awake. He was beginning to find nearly everything funny, and both Vesper and Christina could not resist making silly faces at him whenever they got the chance, his little giggles were so infectious. He was getting stronger, too, and much more coordinated, now able to reach out and touch things he wanted, though he couldn't quite grasp them yet.

He was a beautiful baby, with his long, blond eyelashes and crystal-blue eyes, and he was, though Vesper would not admit it to Christina, starting to look more like his father each day. There was a bit of her in him, as well, in his big, round, plaintive eyes and his heavy, low eyebrows, but everything else, from his colouring to his ears, that were starting to stick out a bit, and his serious, taciturn little mouth was James Bond.

Vesper was surprised to find that she did not despair at her son's uncanny resemblance to his father, but instead found it almost delightful. She had thought it would be an unpleasant reminder of his absence, to see his face in her son's every time she looked at him, but instead she found that her son was becoming a very pleasant reminder of the time that they had shared.

Her love for Henry was so intense, so complete and immutable that every time she saw his little face she thanked his father for giving her this gift. She still missed James desperately, still loved him irrevocably, but as her son grew and changed, she found her heart starting to heal. James's absence hurt less, as the days went by.

She knew now that moving to New York was the best thing she could have possibly done. She'd left all the strife and guilt and heartache back in London, those times now barely more than a memory now.

Of course, she would never admit this to M, or even to Christina, to save face. She still resented the woman for the heavy hand she had wielded over Vesper's affairs, but she was also thankful, in spite of herself, for forcing her to come here.

Because she was finding that she loved being a mother, loved doing it more than she had ever loved anything before. And, as it turned out, only being away from everything she had ever known had allowed her to commit herself to it fully.


	17. Chapter 17

Summer, it seemed, was over faster than it had begun, and with autumn loomed her son's six-month birthday, and, possibly, the end of her tenure as a stay-at-home mother. M had called in regards to a position that was opening up at the beginning of November.

Vesper was suddenly struck with a variety of conflicting feelings as the older woman told her the news. She'd had to admit that some part of her yearned to be back amongst grown-ups once again, to be able to have adult conversations about things like politics and current events. She had been very good at her job, and had valued her career greatly, and it had been a point of pride that she had risen as far and as fast as she had.

But of course the thought of being away from her son for more than an hour or so sent her into paroxysms of guilt and anxiety. She couldn't imagine being away from him all day, leaving him in the care of such a young woman, no matter how capable she had proven herself to be. As well, he had yet to be weaned, and was still dependent on her exclusively for food.

Henry at five and a half months was becoming stouter by the day, now weighing over sixteen pounds, and was now able to sit up on his own without any support most of the time, which made playtime a lot more productive.

He could now sit and play with a toy, focussing so intently that Vesper was sometimes moved to tears by his little face screwed up in concentration. She and Christina spent hours on the floor with him, moving knobs and dials and pressing buttons for him, watching as he started to figure things out.

He could roll over on his own as well, if he were placed on his belly, and Vesper could see he had inherited his father's physical prowess, as he was already starting to scoot himself around by pulling his little bottom across the floor.

Vesper very much did not want to miss any future milestones, and she told M as much when the woman called her a week later.

"I understand," M replied, her voice soft. "There will be other positions. Perhaps waiting until the new year would be more suitable?" Vesper breathed a sigh of relief.

"Yes. I think that would be the better option," Vesper agreed, glancing at Christina, who approached her holding the chubby now six-month-old Henry, gazing up at his mother with round eyes.

"Alright," M's voice came into her ear, "I'll be in touch, and if I don't hear from you until the new year, I do wish you both a Happy Christmas." Vesper smiled, stroking her son's head.

"And to you," Vesper said.

She hung up the phone and turned to see Christina's expectant face staring back at her.

"So?" the girl asked, shifting the baby's already considerable weight to her other hip.

"I'm not taking it," Vesper told her, and the girl smiled brightly.

"Oh, good," she said. "I told you it was too soon."

"I know," Vesper said, sighing deeply. She shook the thoughts from her head. "Come on, you two, lunch in the park?"

"Park, Henry?" Christina asked the boy, making her eyes big. He smiled at her.

"Bah!" he said, "bah, bah, bah!"

"I think that was a yes," Vesper said, laughing, heading down the corridor to get their things.

Ω

Halloween in New York City was a much more significant holiday than in Britain, Vesper soon learned. Nearly every home had some sort of decoration in the window. The streets were lined with jack-o-lanterns, and children in bright and varied costumes roamed the streets.

She hadn't been prepared for the amount of effort Americans put into this holiday. In England, Halloween was much less noteworthy, having to compete with Bonfire Night just a few days later. There were few trick-or-treaters out in London on the thirty-first of October, certainly much less than the hordes of hungry children that greeted Vesper that first Halloween in America.

Christina showed up in the late afternoon, clad in a very elaborate Hermione Granger costume that left Vesper standing stunned by the time she'd obviously put into it. She came bearing a store-bought pumpkin costume for Henry, and insisted that the two of them take him out to a few homes.

Vesper wasn't too keen on it, and felt underdressed among the costumed parents and children she came upon, and so held back and allowed the exuberant Christina to take her son door-to-door, smiling proudly at the oohs and aahs her adorable little pumpkin garnered.

When they were done, Vesper put her tired son to bed, and sat on the sofa with Christina, still in her Hogwarts robes, eating Henry's loot and watching television.

With November came the first of the cooler weather, rain and gloom often permeating their days, and with this new month came her son's foray into the world of locomotion.

He'd gotten fairly skilled at pulling himself around, scooting along on his bottom a few feet at a time, and was able to stand with support for a few minutes at a time. And for quite some time now, he'd been leaning forward on his arms as he sat, sometimes able to get his knees under him and even rock a little bit on all fours.

But one cold, rainy Sunday afternoon in November that reminded Vesper very much of London, he was doing just that, when he moved one knee forward. Vesper stopped and watched, sensing a big breakthrough was about to happen, and then he moved his other knee forward, so that he was almost sitting on his feet again. And then, miraculously, he used his legs to lunge forward and move his right arm forward, and then his left.

He was up on all fours again, and stunned by what he'd just done, looked up at his mother in a sort of proud daze. She felt her throat start to tighten and tears burn at the corners of her eyes, and she quickly ran to fetch the camera.

A few hours later and dozens of photographs later he was starting to get the hang of this new crawling thing, and by the end of the week, he was moving so quickly around the flat, that she and Christina had had to quickly baby-proof the entire flat, moving everything off the floor and securing the toilet lids and covering wall sockets.

Vesper found that having a child who could now move around the flat fairly quickly left her feeling anxious most of the time. She and Christina were constantly having to follow him now, and watch him vigilantly as he was very curious and, much to Vesper's alarm, liked to explore.

As their first American Thanksgiving and the baby's seven-month birthday loomed, he became more and more vocal, his vocabulary expanding to several different syllables. He liked to imitate things that his mother and nanny said, though the words were often just gibberish.

One day, as Vesper came to get him out of his cot in the morning, he burst out with "Ma!" as soon as she walked in the door. She laughed incredulously, picking him up and kissing him, but she was soon disappointed when Christina arrived a few hours later and he called her the same thing.

But as the weeks went on and she observed from afar the American post-Thanksgiving Christmas-shopping extravaganza with a sort of horrified wonder, he began to be able to form words more readily, starting to call Vesper "Mama," and after some time call Christina "Nana."

She had to admit that she had never heard anything so beautiful as her own son knowing that she was his mother and being able to tell her so. She felt her heart skip a beat each morning she went in to get him from his cot and he saw her, breaking into a big grin and calling out her name excitedly.

Henry's first Christmas was a subdued affair. Vesper did not want to spoil him, as he was not particularly aware of just what was going on. So she picked him up a few little things, books and a couple of educational toys.

The weather had turned chilly, but any snow that fell quickly melted, leaving the sidewalks slushy and difficult to navigate. She and Christina took Henry to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center watched Christina, who'd met up with some friends, skate skilfully around the ice rink.

Christina came over Christmas morning after opening gifts with her family to help Henry open his. The boy was impressed with the gifts, turning them over in his hands, but he had much more fun with the wrapping paper.

Christina invited Vesper over for dinner with her parents that evening, but Vesper declined. She did not want to intrude. As well, she was not in the mood for any sort of questions either parent might ask her about her past.

So she stayed home with her son, watching as he bored of the wrapping paper and boxes and began playing with some of his toys.

And then it was that last week of the year again. Vesper could not believe that it had gone by as quickly as it had, or that this time last year she had been pregnant and alone, her life quiet and mundane. Now it was anything but, each day a new adventure, the most exhausting thing she'd ever done, but also so joyful and rewarding.

New Year's Eve crept up rather quickly, and Vesper was surprised to find Christina at her door soon after she put Henry down for the night.

"I thought you were going out with your friends?" she asked, letting the girl in.

"I was," she said, entering and removing her coat, "but Chris and Brittany are going to Times Square, even after I told them I didn't want to go this year, and Rachel decided to tag along, so I just decided to stay home." The girl flopped down on the sofa dejectedly.

"This isn't home," Vesper said mildly, and the girl looked up at her.

"Yeah, well, Mom and Dad went out for dinner, and Michael's in Europe, so I didn't want to stay home alone." She picked up the remote and changed the channel. Vesper smiled. She forgot, sometimes, just how young Christina really was. She was often so responsible and hard-working that she seemed much older than her nineteen years.

But now, looking at the sad young woman sitting on her sofa, she felt an almost motherly affection for her. She needed someone right now, needed someone the way Vesper had needed someone when she'd first come to this city, though she hadn't even known it.

And so Vesper slipped out and picked up a bottle of mid-priced champagne, allowing the girl to share it with her. Christina's parents, being European themselves, often let the girl drink despite New York's draconian drinking laws. Henry slept soundly as they talked, the girl's demeanour improving as the night went on.

At one point, Vesper realised that it was the first time she'd drunk alcohol since the night her son was conceived. She grinned ruefully and allowed herself a few minutes of reflection, her less-inhibited mind drifting back to that night, that time. It had only a mere year and a half ago that she and James had sailed into Venice, but it felt almost like a dream, and that she had been another person entirely. So much had changed.

As the clock approached midnight, Vesper could not help but remember the New Year's Eve of the previous year, when she'd stood at the window watching the drunken students sing and chant, her son moving around inside her.

It was a far, lonely cry from the happy, slightly drunken countdown she and Christina made as they watched the ball drop on television, clinking their glasses together and wishing each other the best.

When the girl passed out on the sofa soon after, Vesper smiled and covered her with a blanket, before checking on her still-sleeping son.

The few glasses of champagne she'd had had left her slightly tipsy, as she stood at the window, watching people of all ages walking by in various stages of inebriety. A few people were trying to get a chorus of that familiar New Year's song going, and she smiled, thinking of all that she had done in the time since she'd last heard it.

She had given her son a promise that night, and now, a year later, was quite proud to say she'd done her very best to keep it. It had been difficult, and draining, and the most emotional and heartrending year so far. She had never believed she'd feel everything so acutely, would be so affected by her love for this little person and the things he did.

She'd never really thought of herself as mother material, had never expected that it would come so easily to her, when her own mother was a mere memory. But, surprisingly, it had, and she enjoyed motherhood immensely. And, although it was still early in her son's life, and there was still so much growing and many more difficult years to come, she felt that, so far, she'd done well raising him.

She drained the bottle of champagne into her glass, a reward for the year she'd just lived, all the things she'd sacrificed and all the sleep she'd lost. She drank it as she stood at the window, looking out at this new year in this country that was beginning to feel like home, and idly wondered what James Bond had been doing when the clock struck twelve.

But then, the thought was gone as the bubbly, sweet nectar started to work its way to her brain, dulling her senses and her thoughts.

She placed her empty glass in the sink and checked on both Henry and Christina before slipping off to bed herself, nodding off before her head hit the pillow.


	18. Chapter 18

M called on the eighth of January, wishing Vesper a Happy New Year before getting down to the important business of informing her that there was a position opening up at the beginning of March at JPMorgan Chase.

"It's in Accounts Receivable in Treasury Services, so I'm afraid it's a bit more mundane than your previous position," M told her that afternoon, "but you're more than qualified and I've already given them your name and references. The position's all but yours, if you're up for it."

Vesper sighed deeply. M was right; Vesper had spent years in Accounts Receivable before she'd been hired at the Treasury. This position was right up her alley, and would be more than adequate to fund her lifestyle here. She'd finally be able to pay her own rent, and to provide for her son and pay Christina out of her own salary.

But in the beginning of March Henry would still only be ten months old, still in need of his mother's care. She'd have to wean him before then, which she knew might be a bit of a struggle. It would be strange, finally being separated from him, that last connection cut, her body finally her own again.

She had to admit it would be freeing, to not be tied down anymore by her son's incessant feedings, to be able to go out for hours and not have to deal with the embarrassing leaks and painful fullness in her breasts.

But she was hesitant to sever that connection, that tie they had to each other. She loved that time with him, that silent bonding that took place. She didn't want to lose that, didn't want to be away from him any more than she had to be.

But M was waiting for her answer, waiting as she had done for the several months Vesper was not ready to work. And she knew this was a golden opportunity. So many people in this city strove to get that high, to be up near the top, to make enough money to provide for their families. And most of them didn't have the luxury of a ten-month parental leave, to have their bills and rent paid for them.

She had to admit she'd been spoiled here by M. Sure, it was repayment for what had happened in Venice, and, she supposed, for keeping Henry and Vesper away from James, but the truth was M had been indulging her. Vesper had been pampered, almost; she had been allowed to enjoy her son's first few important months in this great flat, with Christina to help.

She sighed, heavily.

"I'll take it," she told M.

Ω

Her first day went rather well, considering. Henry gave a bit of a fuss in the morning when she left, but she kissed his little head and wished him goodbye, knowing Christina would manage to quiet his tears. She pushed back that instinctual, visceral pain on being separated from him, that crushing guilt that his cries managed to evoke.

She stood in the corridor outside their door listening to her son wail, breathing deeply, the same way she'd done back in London, and finally he quieted inside the flat.

She straightened her clothing, her new tailored suit, and slung her expensive bag over her shoulder. She headed off down the corridor, her new heels clacking on the marble floor.

It was amazing how simply dressing the part did most of the work of putting her in that professional mindset again. As she left the flat, climbing into the car that was waiting for her, she felt her anxieties begin to subside. And as the car pulled away, and she watched the people and buildings rush past her window, she began to even anticipate the day.

Christina and Henry would be fine, that she knew. The girl had a way with him that even Vesper sometimes did not, as she could calm some of his most awful tantrums. She was young and imaginative, and Vesper had absolutely no reason to worry.

His weaning had taken much less time and heartbreak than she had thought it would, and after a week he was completely adjusted to solid foods. Her breasts ached for a while, but the milk soon dried up, and like that they were severed.

She had shed a few tears over it, over the loss of that time they'd had together, that bonding experience, but then there had been the new drama of feeding time, struggling with getting the semi-solid baby food into her son's mouth.

He was ten months old now, still crawling and now starting to use tables and chairs to pull himself up to standing. He would be walking soon, no longer the infant she had cradled and rocked, but a full-fledged, energetic toddler.

The car pulled up to her destination on Park Avenue and she got out, joining the dozens of other similarly-dressed professionals milling about the sidewalk. The car drove away and she looked around at the people walking past, in their expensive tailored suits and posh Italian loafers, the cups of high-priced coffee clutched in their hands; the type of people she was well familiar with from her position at the Treasury.

And suddenly it switched on, just like that, that desire to work and succeed, to impress superiors, to feel like a productive member of society. She had been good at her job, had enjoyed succeeding at it, at climbing the ladder and making a living for herself, and she supposed, that part of her had never gone away. She could be both mother and career woman.

She entered the building.

Ω

She was surprised how quickly time began to pass, once she was oriented at her new job, and Henry and Christina began to adjust to her new schedule. M was right, she was perfect for this position, and she had to admit it was nice to be back amongst adults again. She missed her son, yes, but kept in touch with Christina throughout the day.

Occasionally, she'd bring Henry in to meet for lunch in the park, like they used to do. The weather was warming up quite quickly, the snow all but gone, and spring was starting to bloom.

Soon Henry was eleven months old and took his first steps one day while she was in a meeting. Vesper took the call from Christina, stealing away to the bathroom to cry a few quick tears.

But then she met the two of them for lunch, and he gave her a display of his new skill on the green grass of Central Park. She wiped her tears and kissed her son goodbye, and headed back to work.

Such was the life of a single, working mother.

Ω

The twenty-fourth of April came as dreary as it had been bright the day her son was born. He was standing in his cot waiting for her when she woke that morning, his round eyes bright and his blond hair tousled. It was getting a little long, sticking this way and that, and she smoothed it down and kissed his head.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she whispered to him, lifting him from the cot and hugging his growing body against her. She could not believe it had been a year since that day, since she had welcomed him into the world in their tiny bathroom back in Croydon.

His had been a perfect, serene birth, and, as she thought back on it and those few hours afterwards, as she got to know him for the first time, she missed his babyhood so desperately. A deep sadness squeezed at her heart, at the thought that he would never be that small again. She hugged him firmly against her, letting a few tears fall.

But, predictably, he started to squirm and she reluctantly put him down gently on his feet. He quickly ran out of the room, and she could not help but smile at his little body toddling out into the corridor. No, he would never be a baby again, but he would still need her, still cry for her when he was hurt. She would be his mother forever, no matter how old or tall he grew.

She sighed, wiping away the tears, and followed her little boy out of his room.


	19. Chapter 19

Vesper threw a little birthday party for Henry that weekend, allowing him to demolish a couple of cupcakes and open a few gifts. Christina was the only guest, but more than made up for the absence of any other in her infectious enthusiasm.

It was amazing how quickly time began to pass as she adjusted to this new life as working mother. Christina was rising to the occasion, and had become an absolute godsend to her. The young woman and Henry got along famously during the day, and Christina was imaginative and playful, and had endless patience and enthusiasm.

She still took the weekends off, allowing Vesper some time with her son alone, but the young woman was starting to become like part of the family.

Soon it was summer again, and now with Henry more mobile and able to stay awake longer, Vesper was more inclined to take him out for the day. She and Christina took him to Coney Island a few times, helping him play in the surf, and taking him on some rides and to the concessions.

She took him to the library often, as he was beginning to love books. He loved being read to, his vocabulary growing by the day, and she often spent her evenings and weekends sitting on the sofa reading to him, his little eyes rapt by the pages.

As fall crept in and his eighteenth month of life arrived, he became more dextrous, now able to scribble with a crayon, and hold and throw things quite well. He now had an almost full set of baby teeth, which had come in with almost no complaint from him, and he liked to talk a lot, little mumbles that weren't really words but seemed to hold some meaning to him nonetheless.

His second Christmas was much more eventful than the first, as he was much more aware of everything that was going on. He still found wrapping paper and boxes much more interesting than the actual gifts he received, but she and Christina still had great fun helping him unwrap the books and toys, and seeing the look on his face when shiny new present emerged.

Vesper found that as her son grew, time seemed to speed up. As he became more aware of his world and more active, more in need of attention as he plunged headlong into toddlerhood, there was just so little time to sit and reflect that her life seemed almost to move along at warp speed.

Her job kept her busy enough, with very little downtime and very high demands on her, she spent the majority of the day on the phone or in meetings, directing and managing funds, advising lenders and investors.

And evenings and weekends were filled with reading stories and feeding a very fussy eater, bathing and changing and putting to bed. She took him to swimming lessons, to the park, to the museum and the library, every day another mad adventure for her.

Her son was soon two years old and was become more eloquent by the day, able to point out things and name them, able to hold at least semi-intelligible conversations, and was becoming more and more agile by the day, running and jumping and filling her with anxiety as he climbed anything and everything.

Christina kept up with him fine, the girl still young and sprightly, able to chase the boy around the park for hours while Vesper watched from the sidelines, exhausted by their endless vigour.

Henry's third summer was spent in the park and at the beach. He loved playing at the playground daily, and had integrated into toddler society quite well.

He growing into a handsome boy, with long wispy blond hair that she had to get cut quite often, and eyes that seemed to have gotten bigger and more expressive, and were now the colour of the afternoon sky. His ears stuck out just a little, which she found incredibly endearing, but he didn't much like them, and she suspected that some of his little friends may have made fun of them.

But, he was a joy, and exhausting, but becoming more of a little person and less of a baby each day. She lamented at how quickly he was growing, cried sometimes when she looked at pictures of how small he'd been. But she never despaired for long, because there was a book to be read, or a picture to colour, or food to prepare.

Christina took him out trick-or-treating that Halloween and she smiled at the two-and-a-half-year-old dressed up in his Spiderman costume, picking him up and kissing his head before he began to protest. He had begun to become more boyish in the past few months, becoming more and more obsessed with superheroes and cars and everything that moved.

He could watch the cars go by for hours from the window, and loved big trucks and machinery. Christina often took him to watch construction sites for hours, his little face rapt as he watched the cranes and backhoes and men with jackhammers.

His third Christmas was the most joyful yet, now that he was becoming more and more aware of what was going on around him. She delighted in watching him open his gifts and rip the packages open, playing happily with his toys all day.

Soon he was three years old, and was now becoming rather robust, now forgoing his usual midday nap. He had boundless energy and could run and jump and play for hours. Christina had managed the rather monumental task of toilet-training him, which Vesper was eternally grateful for. He'd had a few accidents, but had mostly dry nights now, and both women were happy to finally be done with changing nappies

His words were becoming more comprehensible and he could focus for longer periods of time, spending hours building towers of blocks or bashing little toy cars into each other.

He liked to talk to himself a lot, which she found rather amusing, and liked to tell her about his day when she got home, about everything he'd seen in rambling, breathless, completely endearing sort of way. He'd tell her about every truck and every bus he'd seen, the things the other children in the park did and said, about the various rodents and birds he'd seen in the park.

M had kept in touch over the years, calling from time to time to inquire about the boy's health and well-being and Vesper's, as well. That summer she called to inform her that there was a place for him in the preschool down the street should she so require it.

Vesper looked over at her thoughtful little boy, colouring a picture determinedly with his crayons, his eyes focussed and bright. He was ready, she knew, but she had to admit she wasn't sure if _she _was ready to send her son away from everything he'd ever known for a few hours a day.

In the end, the decision was made for her. Christina's mother had finally convinced the girl to start applying to universities the previous year, although Christina had told Vesper she wasn't committing to anything just yet.

But Christina had been keeping a secret from her: she'd been admitted to her first choice, Columbia University, and was set to start taking classes in the fall. She told Vesper one day early in the summer, shame-faced and guilty, shedding a few tears, but Vesper gave her a firm hug and assured her all would be well.

The girl could not put off her future for much longer. She was now twenty-two years old and had more than earned the significant salary Vesper had been paying her. She gave Christina her blessing, and, after many tears and goodbyes, some of them Henry's, the girl ended her tenure with them.

It was difficult, adjusting to this new development, having to walk her son to school each morning and manage to keep things together without Christina's helpful presence. But Henry quickly began to thrive at preschool, as he was quick to learn and had endless focus and creativity, and enjoyed being able to play and talk with friends all day.

Christina continued to visit from time to time, giving them an account of how school was going, usually with Henry perched upon her lap. He missed his first nanny, but Vesper had hired, on M's advice, an older woman to bring the boy home from preschool and care for him for the few hours she remained at work. Her name was Anne and she was a good fit, a friend of Christina's parents. She was in her sixties, and had numerous children and grandchildren of her own, asked few questions and was patient and good-natured.

It was amazing how quickly time went by as her son adjusted to life as a student, and, as his fourth birthday loomed, how quickly he was becoming a little person. He was maturing, blossoming amongst his peers, as he was very social and well-liked.

As spring bloomed, he threw off the last vestiges of toddlerhood, now, physically and socially, and even emotionally most of the time, a child. Vesper found that she liked this stage of her son's development the most.

He was becoming very eloquent and well-mannered, was able to carry on conversations now, was inquisitive (sometimes to a fault), and had lost some of the impulsivity of toddlerhood. She was teaching him to read, and he was patient and focussed as he sounded out the words, his little finger following along the page.

He heard everything, listened even when it seemed like he wasn't, and even Vesper found herself mindful of what she said around him. He was often asking her about adult conversations he'd overheard, or things other children had said to each other. She tried to address his questions as objectively as she could, doing her best to treat him like the little man he was growing into.

As summer loomed, he became easier to take along, could walk for longer periods of time. He got more out of their visits to educational places than he had in the past, pointing and inquiring about various museum exhibits, sometimes mesmerised by a painting in an art gallery. She knew he was still too young to truly understand a lot of it, but she wanted him to begin to be curious about those areas of culture nonetheless.

Christina was taking the summer off from classes, and, much to Vesper's relief, had agreed to watch Henry during the day while she was at work. This was a stroke of luck for Vesper, as Anne's own grandchildren had been unceremoniously dropped off with her for the summer.

So her son and his nanny got reacquainted, Henry telling her about his first year at preschool, and all the friends he'd made, and Christina regaling them with some of the tamer stories of her freshman year at Columbia.

The group of three spent many a weekend enjoying all the city had to offer; beaches, parks, cinemas and theatres. With Henry was now a strong swimmer, they spent hours on the seashore, building sandcastles and splashing in the surf.

Autumn came quicker than she would have hoped, and her son and Christina were soon back at their respective schools, with Anne free of her three young grandchildren and back caring for Henry for those few hours each day.

Time went on, her son becoming more and more gorgeous by the day, more and more a little gentleman and her little pal. He often had friends come over to play, and was becoming more social. He'd learned to read quite quickly and was now devouring books, demanding that she read him at least three each night before bed.

He'd grown out of his cot long ago and now had his own bed. His toys were all stowed away at the end of every day in various totes and boxes she'd purchased for him. She wanted him to become more organised, to have respect for his own space and his belongings.

That Christmas she helped him make a list for Santa Claus. As she shopped she tried very hard not to spoil him, buying only what he'd asked for, though she'd been tempted to buy countless other things.

She fought back the urge to buy his love with gifts, as she'd seen so many other parents in the stores trying to do. It was tempting, as that look on his face when he got something he really had wanted was unbelievably infectious, and she wanted so very much for him to be happy.

But she also wanted to teach him about the value of money. With her ample salary she'd been able to start a savings account for him long ago, and spent a lot of time teaching him that material goods were not terribly important, and trying to disabuse him of his school friends' assertions that having the latest and most expensive toy was what he should strive for.

Twenty-twelve arrived quickly, and Vesper could only marvel at how quickly time had gone by. Was she not just changing his nappies, nursing him? And now he was able to read and almost write, and could carry on a nearly adult conversation? She shook her head. It was difficult to believe.

And all in all, she'd come to love this city, and her son adored it as well. It was relatively safe, their flat was fairly quiet, they were close enough to the park that he could go there and run and play like a child should. There were endless attractions and sights to see, and she had come to enjoy the hustle and bustle and quick pace. She adored New York City, had come to love it like she'd loved London.

But then everything changed.


	20. Chapter 20

It was early February, her son was at school, and she was at work. It had been warming up and the snow was melting quickly, the streets and sidewalks full of slush.

She was walking down the corridor early that morning in Treasury Services when she spotted a few employees gathered around a television. She inched closer, catching Wolf Blitzer's familiar tone announcing "—a possible 'cyber-terrorist assault' on the British Secret Service" and her pace picked up. She strode quickly over to the television, her heart racing. When she got near, she saw it.

MI6 Headquarters in London, the SIS Building at Vauxhall Cross was spewing plumes of thick, black smoke from out of its upper levels. As she stepped up to the TV, her breath quickening, ignoring her coworkers' concerned glances, Blitzer went on, "—indicate at least six dead, many more injured, with victims being evacuated to local hospitals within minutes of the explosion."

She stood there, staring at the building as it burned. It was unlikely, she knew, that James was injured, as he rarely spent any time at that building, often deployed on missions around the world. But this was still serious; M still worked there, as well as a great number of MI6 employees.

She had no idea, for how could she know, that halfway around the globe, in the early evening on a beachside bar in Fethiye, Turkey, James Bond was watching the exact same news broadcast, and that it would bring him back from the dead.

Ω

She waited for a call that night from M, but got nothing. She even called the number M had given her, back in London, and left a brief message. Nothing.

She soon found out why, as it was soon revealed that eight MI6 employees had been killed in the attack. M, it seemed, had survived, and was now on the hot seat from members of parliament and the public to find the person responsible. That was why she hadn't contacted Vesper. She had much more pressing business.

Vesper read the names of the victims in the newspaper after Henry had gone to sleep, her heart in her throat, and, when she did not recognise any of them, she threw the paper down and leaned back on the sofa in relief. He was still alive, as far as she knew.

So she waited idly as February went on, as the first of the embedded spies whose identities had been released was executed, wishing her son a good day at school, and working as she'd always done. She following the news religiously, reading each day of the public pressure on the head of MI6, and then the announcement of a public inquiry to be held at Trinity Square.

And then, terrifying reports of a terrorist attack on the London Underground, several dead in an explosion that derailed a train, and, the same day, a shooting at the inquiry itself. Vesper learned that there had been fatalities, but that the majority of them had been security guards, and there were no reports of any MI6 or public employees sustaining or succumbing to injuries.

After that there was nothing. No reports of a perpetrator being apprehended, no news on the future of MI6 or its chief. Nothing. The trail had gone cold.

So as March crept in and spring began to bloom, Vesper went on with her life. She worked, read to her son, fed him, and took him to the park.

That was, until, one morning she caught the tail-end of a news report. She was in the kitchen cleaning up after her breakfast. Henry was eating Cheerios at the kitchen table, kicking his dangling legs back and forth and reading the words on the cereal box.

She heard the words "—Mallory has been instated as head of Britain's Secret Service," and she turned and quickly stepped into the living room, her pulse quickening.

"—died last month at the age of sixty-five," was what she caught next, an unfamiliar female name shown next to a picture she knew very well. M.

It was M, and she was dead.

Vesper fell to the sofa as her son watched her from the kitchen, as curious as he always was.

The announcer went on, "Mallory, fifty, former Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, was a Lieutenant Colonel in the British Army before—"

"Mom, what's wrong?" asked a small voice, and Vesper turned to see her son's wide blue eyes looking back at her. He had gotten up from the table and was now looking at her with concern, and a tiny bit of fear. His sweet face managed to bring her back to the present, and she took a deep breath, clearing her head.

"N—nothing, sweetheart," she managed to say, her voice strengthening as she spoke, her breathing returning to normal. "Nothing's wrong." She kissed his blond head, and directed him back to the kitchen. "Finish your breakfast, we've got to leave soon."

The boy did as he was told, as he always did, and she remained on the sofa, taking deep breaths. The news report announcing MI6's change in command was long over, but she was still deep in thought.

Dead. M was dead. The woman who could make grown men cry, who had given her and her son everything they had, and who had seemed almost invincible. She was dead.

Somehow, Vesper managed to walk her son to school and get to work on time. She went through the day in a stupor, her mind drifting as she spoke with clients, then as she ate lunch.

A few coworkers seemed concerned, but did not ask after her, as she supposed James had been right. Her demeanour was somewhat prickly, though she had tried to be more personable over the years. She wanted to be taken seriously, didn't want to be seen as weak, and, in the end, most of her coworkers kept their distance.

James—the thought of him gave her a little jolt of emotion. Fear, and anticipation, perhaps? She didn't yet know what truly had happened, had no idea what circumstances had precipitated the death of his superior, or if he was even still alive.

As she entered her flat that afternoon, relieving Anne of her duties and greeting her son, she hoped very much that the phone wouldn't ring. That M hadn't passed on the task of watching over Vesper's affairs to her successor, the equally severe-looking Gareth Mallory.

The days passed and the phone did not ring. She waited a week, then two. It was mid-March now and warming up considerably. Her son was as energetic as ever, coming down with spring fever, running and jumping around the flat and enthusiastically discussing his days with her.

One day at work, during a rare lull, she made a decision. She had renewed her and Henry's passports earlier the previous year at the British Embassy when she'd been thinking of planning a holiday for the two of them in the Caribbean. As well, she hadn't heard from anyone in the weeks since the announcement of M's death and Mallory's promotion.

So, she booked two flights online to London. She had to see, had to know. If the opportunity existed to go back to London, she had to take it.

MI6 was likely still in disarray, Mallory going through the transition period as successor, and if they were going to leave, they had to do it now. Before files were transferred and things got settled and the man who was now M started digging into his predecessor's affairs.

So she informed her son of their upcoming trip, knowing it might not go ahead, knowing it was quite possible they'd be turned down at the airport and sent back to their flat.

They spent the Friday evening before their flight packing, Henry very excited about the upcoming plane ride. He was in love with any large piece of machinery with a big engine, and it took her a very long time to get him to sleep that night.

Finally, though, he could not keep his eyes open anymore, drifting off, and she found herself strolling around the flat that had been their home for so long. Her son had learned to crawl and walk here, had been spent hours playing and watching television here, had learned to read on the sofa in the living room.

She had come to love it, was attached to it with the same affection she held for the London flat in which he was born. She didn't want to leave it, didn't want to uproot her son while he was still in school, but she had no choice. She had to go now. And he was still young. He would understand.

So, that morning, they said goodbye to the flat, Henry pulling his little suitcase behind him as he bounded down the corridor, more excited than she had ever seen him.

They took a taxi to the airport, pulling into the terminal at JFK for the first time since she'd arrived here nearly five years ago. It was surreal to be back, and, her heart pounding, she checked the two of them in.

They were ushered into the terminal, holding their boarding passes, Vesper's heart in her throat. She tried very hard to remain outwardly calm, not only for her son's sake, but also to remain as inconspicuous as possible.

But she needn't have worried, as soon they were being seated on the plane, Henry looking around wide-eyed at the cabin, breaking into a huge excited grin as the plane began to taxi.

And like that they were off, New York and the continent of North America fading into the distance. They'd made it into the air, though she knew that there was still the hurdle of Customs to get through.

Henry fell asleep soon after they took off, the little amount of sleep he'd gotten and the altitude getting the better of him, so she could only stare out the window as the hours crept on, as they flew closer and closer to London and everything she had left behind.

The boy woke after it got dark outside their windows, looking around in confusion, and then spent the rest of the flight occupied by the in-flight movie as she fidgeted nervously.

Roughly eight hours after they'd left New York they landed at Heathrow at half-past eight in the evening. It was dark, and raining, and they disembarked, her son looking around in wonder at this new country.

She waited in the queue at Customs, trying very hard to keep her heart rate down. She kept her hand on Henry's shoulder as they waited, so sure that at any moment they would be detained, their passports flagged and confiscated. But, miraculously, after some mild questions, they were sent through.

She exited the terminal, her heart still pounding, feeling light and light-headed, as though she had dodged a bullet. She stood there outside the international arrivals door for a few seconds, unable to believe they were free.

Henry turned back to look at her, his tiny suitcase trailing behind him. He was excited, wanted to get out and see this new city, anxious to get moving.

"Mom?" her son asked, eyeing her with concern.

"Yeah," she said, clearing her throat, coming out of her exhilarant daze. She followed him out of the airport, and they flagged down a taxi.

As the cab drove through the dark city, making its way to the hotel, she found herself finally able to breathe, and to think. She was back in London. They'd made it.

Her mouth curled into a nervous smile as they drove on, Henry looking out the window, amazed and excited.

She paid the cabbie, and they checked into the Hilton on Edgware Road. She was starting to relax, starting to realise what she'd done. She'd brought her son back to his birthplace, back to the city where his life had begun.

Assuming Gareth Mallory was still ignorant of her existence, she was free. She and her son were British citizens, free to live and work here. They were finally, truthfully, free from MI6's intervention, free from M's machinations. And though she would miss the woman's presence, her little favours and advice, her obvious affection for both James and his son, she had to admit it felt fantastic to be back here and to be a free citizen again. Just another single mother and her son, working and going to school and living their lives.

She let her son jump on the bed for a while, hoping he'd tire himself out, and then took him down to the pool for a swim. They dined in the hotel restaurant, Henry excitedly telling her what he wanted to do the next day, and asking what London was like, if it was like New York, or different, and how long they'd be staying.

She fielded the questions amusedly, and then took him back to the room, putting him to bed. He was refreshed from his nap on the plane and still on New York time, but, as midnight drew near, he finally nodded off as he watched television.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she switched it off, bathing the room in darkness. She went to the window, looking out at the city she'd been forced to abandon so long ago, that city where she had been born and had spent so much of her life.

As she looked out at the bright lights, the busyness of the day finally started to take its toll on her. Despite the fact it was merely six o'clock in the evening in New York, she found herself tiring quickly now. She'd gotten very little sleep the night before, had tossed and turned, unable to shake the anxiety about the next day.

But she'd done it, somehow, had flown in under MI6's radar, and now she was back. Suddenly, as she realised just why she was back, the nervousness began to edge in again. She had been so concerned with getting here that she'd been lying to herself as to why she was making the journey in the first place.

But as her son slept and she stood alone at the window, she finally admitted it to herself. A cold thrill of excitement and fear coursed through her. She was here because her son deserved to meet his father, deserved to have him in his life, and because James Bond deserved to know his son.

She didn't know how to start, where to find him, or even where to look, but she would, if it was the last thing she did. Even if James still held hatred for what she'd done, even if entering his life again put them both in danger, even if it meant MI6 finding her again. She didn't care. She would unite them, even if it killed her.

Tired eyes starting to droop now, she went to bed.


	21. Chapter 21

Henry woke, predictably, before she did that morning, though he thoughtfully allowed her to sleep until nine, watching cartoons on the hotel TV. But by then, he'd had enough of her slumbering, and she was awoken by a little finger poking her shoulder.

"Mom," he said, softly at first, "Mom, wake up."

She stirred, shaking the sleep from her head. She opened her eyes to see her son's sweet face staring back at her. His soft, blond hair was getting too long, and his blue eyes were round and bright today. He was excited, she realised, because they were in London. They'd made it through all the check stops, all the formalities, and the whole city was out there for her to rediscover with her son in tow.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she told him, reaching out to stroke his soft head. "Did you sleep well?"

He nodded vigorously.

"Good," she told him, sitting up and stretching languidly. "Let's get some breakfast."

The two dressed and they made their way to the restaurant, where Vesper allowed her son to order a rather huge waffle slathered in strawberries, chocolate and whipped cream, smiling at him as he quickly devoured it, leaving a few bites for her.

And then she took him out, showing him around the city. Vauxhall Cross, she knew, was a mere twenty-minute bus ride away, but she held off the temptation to hop on one and go past it, if only to see if they'd yet repaired the damage. She resisted. She wanted to spend this day with her son, let him get his bearings in this new city and see some of the sights. Then she would start the search for James Bond in earnest.

So she showed him Paddington Basin, and St. John's Church, but Henry was much more delighted with the double-decker red London buses. So she took him for a ride on one, unable to resist joining in on his infectious laughter as they bound up the stairs to the upper level.

"Everything is different here," he told her as they rode along Park Road, Queen Mary's Gardens in the distance.

"What do you mean, different?" she asked, smiling. He shrugged.

"The streets are so skinny and they all turn so much, and everything is so old and small," he said, looking out at the park.

"That's London," she told him, smiling.

"I like it," he said.

"Good," she said, kissing his head, "now, you want to see the park?"

He nodded eagerly.

"Let's go, then," she said, and they quickly exited at Prince Albert Road, the two of them running into Regent's Park.

The park was alive on this Sunday afternoon with football matches and kids running to and fro. They spent hours there, her son watching the matches with interest (he had expressed interest in joining a soccer team back in New York, but she'd never found the time), and then trying to keep up with him as he ran with boundless energy down the path towards the Gardens.

They spent a while marvelling at the flora before heading back to the hotel for lunch, after which, the boy still wanting to see more of the city, they headed south past Paddington Station to Hyde Park, which he loved even more.

"People swim in there?" he asked of The Serpentine, making a face at the dusky water.

"Some do," she told him as they walked over the bridge.

"Ew," he said.

Vesper laughed.

They trekked across the park to the playground, and she watched him play for a while, until their shadows began to lengthen and dinnertime loomed. So, with a little bit of resistance on his part, they left and the returned to their hotel, hiking back across the park as the sky grew dusky.

"So," she asked him, as they ate that evening, "did you have fun today?"

"Yeah," he replied, nodding fervently. "I like London! There's so many parks."

She laughed.

"You miss home?" she asked, after some time, testing the waters.

"Not yet, Mom," he said, as if she were an idiot. "We just got here!"

She smiled, nodded. She had wanted to spend this day with him, and had tried very hard not to think of the proximity of James Bond.

She wondered if James was at MI6 right now, at the headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, or perhaps elsewhere at a temporary location they'd set up. She knew it was likely that they'd had to evacuate because of the terror threat.

Or maybe he wasn't even in London. Maybe he was on a mission in Marrakech, or Zimbabwe. He could be anywhere. She hadn't really thought of how she was going to find him. His address was not a matter of public record, obviously, and it wasn't as though she could simply walk into MI6 Headquarters and ask for him.

As she put her son to bed that night, she considered her options. She'd have to find a flat, of course, one near a good school for Henry. He hadn't finished preschool, but he would be turning five this year, which meant he would have been starting Kindergarten back in New York in the fall. Here he would be enrolled in Year One of Primary School.

She needed to quickly get his name in, because, she knew, without M's influence, there was bound to be a fairly long waiting list. She had managed to save a fair amount of money and would be able to afford to send him to any of London's best prep schools, but she wasn't quite sure that was what she wanted to do yet.

Her son fell asleep quickly that night, exhausted by the excitement and physical activity he'd gotten that day, but she lay awake, thinking of these things, and of James, hoping he was out there somewhere in this meandering city. Eventually, she would seriously have to commence her search for him, and she had no idea where to start.

However, she was completely unaware, that night, as she finally slipped off to sleep, that she wouldn't need to worry about that at all.

Ω

The next day, she took her son to see a matinee at a cinema in Kensington. She'd been intending to then take him to the Science Museum, as he was keen on those sorts of things.

They'd been walking for a while when it happened, strolling along Kensington Road leisurely, along the southern border of the Park. Her son was chattering away about the film they'd just seen, and Vesper was half-listening as they walked, looking down at him from time to time, but keeping her head up as well, to avoid oncoming pedestrians.

And then, and it happened so fast she could not even react, she looked up, and saw a flash of his face, _his_ face, James Bond's face in the oncoming crowd of faces, and before she could do anything; run, walk, turn and escape into the park, he was in front of her, _him_, James, and he had hold of her arm and ice-cold fear gripped her then as he pulled her through the gate into the park.

Her heart was beating so vigorously she could hear it in her ears, and she struggled to breathe, to get enough air, suddenly feeling very light-headed. He was still holding her arm, bruising it, she knew, but she couldn't bring herself to care, because the hurt and incredulity and utter astonishment she saw in his face, as she struggled to recover from the shock, had driven that familiar knife of guilt and shame into her heart.

She took deep breaths as she stood there, looking into his incredulous eyes. She hoped the remorse and regret was clear on her face, and she was willing him to see it, to understand that she had not wanted any of what had happened, because at the moment she could not speak a word, couldn't even if she'd tried.

People shuffled past, going about their daily lives, ignorant of the monumental reunion that had just silently occurred among them. James was still looking at her, his eyes boring into hers, his hand still gripping her arm, and she held his gaze, unflinchingly staring back at him.

He had aged in the nearly six years since she'd last seen him. His once-smooth face was a little more lined, a little more weathered. It was a different James Bond that stood in front of her, an older one, certainly, but also one, it was clear, that had been beaten down by the years that had been so comparatively kind to her.

His hair, which was longer than she'd ever seen it, was lying flat on his head a bit untidily, and it was starting to grey at the temples. He hadn't shaved in a few days, his face scruffy with a short, mostly grey beard.

It gave off an air of disuse, of inactivity, and she was curious to see that it took away some of the power he usually exuded. He was much less put-together than the man she was used to, and she wondered, as she stood there, taking him in, if it had anything to do with the fact that he was strolling around London on a Monday in the middle of the day.

"James," she heard herself whisper, finally, because she could not stand there any longer with him looking at her like that. His gaze intensified as soon as she spoke, all that hurt and all that anger and grief suddenly so potent she felt as though she must look away. But she could not.

And then she heard a little voice speak, and suddenly she realised her son was here, with her, and he was still holding onto her hand. She had nearly forgotten.

"Mom?" he asked, and James's eyes snapped down to the boy standing beside her, and she watched, unable to breathe, unable to move, as he glimpsed the boy for the first time. His hand, still gripping her arm painfully, went slack, falling down beside him. He took an infinitesimal step back.

She felt that same guilty thrill of satisfaction she'd felt with M as she witnessed his absolute and complete astonishment. She had never, in their short time together, seen him look so utterly thrown, so positively rattled as he looked down at the boy, and then up at her.

And she knew he knew, could see it in his eyes that he knew. Comprehension was dawning on his face. It was impossible not to see it. The boy and the man were near duplicates of each other, give or take almost forty years. She saw the wheels turning in his head, watched as the anger and hurt started to fade, his posture relaxing, and she tore her gaze away from him, looking down into her son's wide blue eyes.

"It's okay," she managed to tell him. "It's alright." She nodded at him, her eyes kind, and he seemed to take her word for it, looking back up at the strange, silent man in front of them.

"Yes," James said, speaking for the first time, and Vesper looked up at him in surprise. His voice was lower than it had been, hoarser. That familiar smirk had crept onto his lips, and it had the simultaneous effect of both comforting and terrifying her. "It's alright." James said, his eyes not leaving her face.

She nodded, her breathing still erratic, watching as his eyes warmed, the tenderness blooming in his expression taking ten years off his appearance. She found herself able to breathe again, as he smiled back at her, genuinely this time, and she began, slowly, to relax.

And then, as he was wont to do, James Bond became James Bond again. Just like that. He stood up straight, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Then he broke eye contact with her, looking down at the boy.

"Would either of you fancy some lunch?" he asked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Vesper could only chuckle in dizzy disbelief as he caught her eye again, her heart still thudding in her chest. "Because I'm famished."


	22. Chapter 22

James insisted on taking them to a tiny café a few blocks away in Kensington Square. Her son, sensing that the ice had thawed between his mother and this strange man, skipped along beside them, chattering away.

He had taken to James right away, as soon as he sensed he wasn't a threat to himself, or to his mother, and spent the four-or-five-block stroll babbling to the man. The boy quickly informed James of his name, his age, how much he liked London, and what they'd done so far today. And James was his middle name, too, did he know that? And his friend Felix had the same middle name as him, back in New York at his school, did James know that?

James turned to give Vesper a look after this confession by the boy, and she could see he was surprised, and perhaps even touched by this gesture of hers. The giving of a name to connect the two of them, mark her son, irrevocably, as his. She gave James a smile, a genuine one, as their son prattled on, because for her it had been an easy choice, an inevitability, the least she could have done for the man who had given her such a gift.

It was a strange sort of peace they'd found themselves in as they wandered past the tall blocks of million-pound flats, she still reeling from the shock of having James back, in front of her, close enough to look at, and speak to, or even to touch.

In truth, her son had been starved for male companionship in his short life, growing up surrounded by female caregivers, and it was clear he sensed a friend in this new man, who seemed patient and eager to listen to him.

Vesper smiled as they chatted, holding Henry's hand and catching James's eye from time to time, sensing his amusement, and she supposed, wonder, at this little being and his boundless energy.

Soon they'd reached Kensington Square and entered the little restaurant, sitting down and ordering. James sat across from Vesper and her son at their table next to the window, looking out into the square.

Vesper found that having her son there as a sort of buffer helped her to adjust to James's presence, as she could not think of what to say to him. So she was content to listen as her son spoke to them in between bites of his sandwich. James, it seemed, felt the same way, smiling and talking to the boy as they ate, still catching her eye from time to time, but not speaking directly to her.

She watched James occasionally when he wasn't looking at her. She had not had a chance to put much thought into how he would react to the revelation of her son's existence. She had been so focused on finding him, on uniting this little family, that she had not put much thought into what would happen when it was.

And now, as she watched James Bond watching his son, his eyes kind and patient, smiling at the boy, she couldn't help but feel that her decision had been the right one. And, she supposed, she wasn't entirely surprised. She'd gotten to know the man fairly well in the few short weeks they'd spent together, and although they'd never spoken of their plans for the future, so concerned with enjoying their newfound intimacy, she'd always suspected he was the kind of man who would have enjoyed and even flourished in fatherhood.

He was egotistical, yes, she'd had plenty of experience dealing with that, and carried out his duties to his country with a sort of mercenary detachment, but there was a James Bond that very few people got to know under all that, a side of him that she had been privy to for a few heady weeks. This James Bond was warm, and caring, fiercely loyal and surprisingly amiable. He was patient, and loving, and this was the James Bond she saw now, speaking with her son.

He had been surprised, yes, earlier, utterly bowled over by the discovery. He hadn't needed to say anything; his reaction had been clearly written on his face. But now, she caught the sort of wonder and amazement she sometimes felt about her son on James's face. The awe that came when she realised he had come from her, had once moved around inside her and now spoke and felt emotions and thought thoughts. She had had years to come to terms with it, had watched him grow and change and learn, and was still sometimes struck dumb by the thought that she'd brought this little person into the world.

And so she smiled as she watched him getting to know the boy he'd fathered, unknowingly, all those years ago, and smiled, as well, because she was, despite it all, just so very happy to have this man near her again.

Now that the shock of having him unceremoniously appear in front of her had begun to wear off, she felt a sort of relief start to settle in. She had found him, or, she supposed, he had found her, and now she watched as he and Henry spoke, the two of them building a relationship she hoped would only grow as time went on.

And, and she had almost been hesitant to admit it, despite the years that had passed and the obvious wear and tear he'd suffered she was surprised to find that that attraction that'd been there, that'd always been there, from the second she'd dropped into the seat across from him on that train to Montenegro, all those years ago, had not diminished. And as soon as the shock had worn off, she quickly found that desire, that feeling that had been absent all these years, atrophied even, so foreign to her, begin to rear its head again. And she was helpless to fight it off.

She revelled in it for a while, in that power he had to draw her to him, that laconic, easy charm. In all the years she'd been away she'd not felt this for any other man, hadn't met anyone during her sojourn in New York that she had even come close. It was not surprising, as she kept to herself at work and often spent any free time she'd had caring for her son.

But, she admitted to herself, as she sat there, watching James curiously, she had truly not even thought about other men in that time. There had been a few, the occasional coworker who'd shown interest, but she had quickly rebuffed them, as she'd been interested instead in getting home to her son, to those few precious hours she got with him each evening.

She had kept loyal to James's memory over the years, for James, but mostly for their son, on whom she had to be completely focussed and whom she could not and did not want to curse with having to share his mother's attentions. She just hadn't been ready to bring anyone new into their life, to upset their routine and the fragile balance she'd managed to put together and uphold.

She liked it with just the two of them, and Anne and Christina occasionally, and wouldn't have dreamed of bringing anyone else into the mix. And, she supposed, as she caught James's eye and she fought back that little twinge in her gut that quickened her pulse, she had never stopped loving James Bond, and, as long as he was alive, would be unable to love another.

But she fought to keep that at bay, to keep her feelings undercover, for now. She had come here to reunite her son with his father, and to allow them time to become accustomed to each other. She hadn't expected the intensity of the feelings that had come up, without warning, that familiar pull he had over her, that now, with her wide-eyed innocent son at her side suddenly felt so dangerous.

The boy saw everything and heard everything, and was incredibly perceptive for his age, and she was forever concerned with controlling what he was exposed to, with keeping him innocent as long as she possibly could. He had never seen his mother with a man, didn't yet understand that she had once loved as any other had, and she had no idea how he'd react to seeing that side of her.

And, as well, she didn't know quite where she stood now, in the life of this man that sat across from her. It was clear he enjoyed Henry's presence and had already forged an incipient bond with the boy. But where did they stand, after all these years, these two who had brought this boy into the world?

She'd held a romanticised view of James over the years, had treasured that short time they'd had together, but now that she was here, with him, with her beloved, impressionable son sitting next to her, she had been forced to be much more realistic in her interpretation of their relationship. She could not afford to be weak, to allow herself the luxury of giving in to what she felt, still, for this man. She had to be firm and unyielding to his charms, not just for her son, but for herself and for her heart, which was not as resilient as it once had been.

After he was finished eating, Henry leaned over to her.

"Mom, I have to pee," he whispered. Vesper smiled as she caught James's eye.

"I'll take you," she told him, but he shook his head.

"I can go myself," he whispered, his eyes wide and his expression resolute.

"Are you sure?" she asked him, but he was already getting down from his chair.

He nodded as he started walking toward the back of the restaurant, following the sign indicating the toilets.

"Make sure you wash your hands!" she told him, as he ambled off.

When she sat back down, alone with James for the first time in five and a half years, he was smirking at her again, and she couldn't help but smile back.

"He's trying to impress you," she told him, "he doesn't want you to think he's a baby."

James nodded, smiling. It was odd, speaking about this boy that they had created, that had been formed from their union but now was a separate entity, a little person, obstinate and willful. She looked across the table at him, the two of them acknowledging everything that had passed since they'd last been together, the years and the events, the heartache and the joy. Then she looked away.

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out," she said, after some time, because it was the only thing she could think to say. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at him. "For everything."

"Don't apologise," he said, suddenly adamant, his expression stony and his eyes cold. "It was her."

"M?" Vesper asked, and James leaned back against his chair.

"She wanted me back," he said, matter-of-factly, "and she knew that if I had even the slightest inkling that you were alive, I would have been at your bedside, not going after Quantum like she wanted me to."

Vesper was surprised, and he saw it, acknowledging it with an intensity that quickened her breath. He was telling the truth. Despite what she'd done, he would have been sitting next to her when she woke, had M not intervened. Because that was the kind of man he was. She had to look away from him, out the window at the square, as James began speaking again.

"She wanted to question you, as well, to find out what you knew, and when she discovered you were pregnant, she shipped you off to America, so that I would never find you."

Vesper was surprised, but not, and could only laugh incredulously. "How—"

"Because, Miss Lynd," he said, leaning forward, towards her, a tiny ghost of a smile on his face, "I think you remember that I am very adept at reading you." He looked into her eyes, recognising that moment, years ago, on a train, and all that had passed since. "I saw it all on your face," he said, and she smiled in spite of herself.

"He's a handsome boy," James said after a few seconds, and she could not help but laugh softly at him. At his audacity.

"I see your ego is still intact," she said, and he smiled.

"I meant," he said, leaning forward on the table, "that I think he looks a lot more like you than me."

"So you're saying I'm handsome?" she asked, and he chuckled.

"You know what I mean," he said, his eyes softening.

"I do," she said. Then her smile faded. She looked up at him. "I thought you would still hate me."

"I did," he replied, surprising her. "For a long time." She regarded his suddenly flinty expression curiously.

"What happened?"

"I met the man who gave you that necklace," he said. Her stomach dropped.

"Yusef?" she asked, stunned.

"Yes," he said. His tone was soft as he went on. "He was hired by Quantum, to seduce you and to gain your trust so that you would have had no qualms about betraying your country to obtain his release."

Vesper looked away, shocked. _Of course he was_, she thought, thinking back on those first days with him, how he had fixated on her so quickly, how he had been so insistent that they go out for dinner, how persistent he'd been in pursuing her; not like any other man had been before._ I think I knew it all along_, she thought, looking back up at James, shame clouding her vision, to find he was watching her with concern; _I just didn't want to admit it to myself_.

"Did you kill him?" she asked, suddenly, anger now rapidly blooming as she realised just how drastically that man had affected the events in her life.

"I wanted to," James said, "more than anything I've ever wanted to do in my life."

"Why didn't you?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, and she could tell he meant it, "I suppose I thought you wouldn't have wanted me to."

"You were wrong," she said, breathing deeply, pushing back that rage that was making it hard for her to think, to breathe.

"He'll die in prison," James assured her.

"Maybe," she said, looking directly into his crystal-blue eyes. "But we'll never get those years back."

"No," he conceded. He broke eye contact, looking out the window, then back at her. "When I met him," he started again, "he was with a young woman, an agent with Canadian Intelligence."

Vesper nodded. Nothing could surprise her about that man now.

"She was wearing the same necklace," he went on. "And she'd had no idea. And I thought, if this woman, with all her training, had been so completely deceived by him," he looked up at Vesper, right into her eyes, "what chance did you have?"

Vesper laughed humourlessly, looking down at her hands, clasped on the table. She'd had none. She'd been young, and vulnerable and completely ill-prepared for this tall, dark and handsome stranger who seemed to know everything about her.

"I forgave you," James said, and she looked back at him, into his eyes, and an understanding flashed between them, a truce, she supposed, an absolution to the look they'd shared in Venice, when he'd first found her in the elevator car, and she had felt as though she would die from the guilt. And she felt that maybe, after all this time, the wound that that guilt had inflicted on her, that had once been so profound and palpable, could begin to heal. Finally.

James's smile was then back as he looked toward the back of the restaurant. He had heard the footsteps she'd just heard, and she looked up to see their son coming out from the lavatories, looking very proud of himself indeed.

He joined them at the table, and Vesper leaned over to whisper in his ear.

"How did it go?" she asked, brushing back the strands of soft blond hair that had fallen in his face.

"Fine, Mom," he said, turning to look at her, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. She caught James's eye, and they shared a grin at the boy's stubborn determination.

"So," he asked, after a few seconds, "what had you two planned to do today?"

And before Vesper could even venture a response, her son burst out with, "We're going to the Science Museum!" and she saw the mischief blossom in James's eyes, that lopsided, dangerous grin. It never bode well.

"Well, that sounds like fun," he said, and she tried very hard not to roll her eyes, "you mind taking along one more?"

Two nearly-identical blond heads turned to look at her expectantly. She sighed. Of course she could not deny either of them.


	23. Chapter 23

The London Science Museum, as it turned out, had been the perfect place to take young Henry Lynd on that grey March afternoon. The boy was fascinated to the point of obsession by machinery, by cars and buses and planes and trains.

He loved the power that these machines had, power that he, as a small, often powerless boy, did not. But there was a curiosity as well, that Vesper noticed, as she stood beside her son and James Bond, the three of them gazing up at the 1862 Stephenson's Rocket steam locomotive the museum had on display.

She had seen her son's face light up when he'd spotted the train, and she had watched how his keen eyes roamed over every part of, his little brow screwed up in concentration, almost as if he were trying to figure it out.

She'd smiled when he'd turned to James, who'd been standing next to her, and started asking questions about the train, how it moved, how it worked, and she felt her smile widen even further when the man crouched down to the boy's level and began answering all of the boy's questions patiently and knowledgably, surprising even Vesper in the depth and breadth of his mechanical expertise.

She watched as her young son listened to the man he did not yet know as his father, his little face rapt as James explained the concept of a steam engine to the boy, about how the forces produced by burning coal and boiling water could somehow manage to make a train move down the tracks.

And as they moved around the museum, taking in as much of the displays as they could, she found her son deferring to James more and more readily, asking him things that even Vesper could not give a thorough answer to.

But James, it seemed, though why she was surprised, she didn't know, was quite versed in a wide variety of subjects. He had become familiar with many a large piece of machinery, whether they cars, trains, or aeroplanes, as she suspected he had had many opportunities to do so in his line of work.

But perhaps she had not expected the way he was able to explain these things to the boy in plain language, to quickly discern Henry's level of understanding and explain the concepts so that the boy truly understood. She had also not been prepared for the patience that James had for Henry's incessant questions, which often left even her exhausted.

When they entered the flight exhibit, with its impressive displays of countless aircraft from many different eras, she knew by the look on her son's face that they would be spending the rest of their visit here. Anything that flew held a special place in Henry's heart, and he was fascinated by the concept that an immense, heavy piece of machinery could fly so seemingly effortlessly through the air.

And James did his best to explain the concept of lift to the boy, though the boy seemed a bit dubious that a mere difference of speed in airflow could move a massive craft through the air, could make a heavy aeroplane fly like a tiny bird.

James acquiesced to Henry's request that he lift him onto his shoulders so he could see the suspended aircraft better, and with a look at Vesper somewhere between amusement and bemusement, he lifted the boy one-handedly onto his shoulders.

Vesper found herself swell with pride and contentment at the sight of her son atop his father's shoulders, finally, after all these years. It was difficult to keep the smile off of her face as they strolled the exhibit, if not from Henry's endless enthusiasm and the easy way that he and James got on, then from James's obvious befuddlement and the almost perplexed glances he shot her at the boy's evident affection for him.

As they made their way around the room, Vesper noticed a few envious stares from some of the other mothers, pram-pushers with harried demeanours and occasionally misbehaving children.

Vesper knew that she and James, even despite his unkempt appearance today, made an attractive pair, with their contrasting complexions; him swarthy and towheaded, and her with her fair skin and jet-black hair.

It was perhaps that that had attracted them to each other in the first place, that contrast between the two of them, light and dark. And if the heads they so often turned on the few rare occasions they'd been out together were anything to go by, it made for a lovely combination.

But today she allowed herself to revel in the covetous looks these other women gave her, slim and dark-haired, out with her well-built blond partner and their energetic, adorable son. She knew it was petty, and she had never been a particularly vain woman, but, in truth, these women knew nothing about this little family, other than what they could glean from their appearance.

They knew not of her son's lonely birth, nearly nine months after she'd tried to kill herself and was so, so thankful that she somehow had not succeeded. Or of how his father had not known of his son's existence until earlier this afternoon. They knew nothing of the torment she'd felt, the pain she'd endured raising him on her own, an ocean away from the man she loved, in a city that had been so foreign to her.

So, she let the others believe what they wanted to believe today, that this was a happy, loving household out for an enjoyable family day in London. She deserved it, she supposed, after all that they'd been through.

After a few hours spent ogling every single aircraft in the entire gallery, with James explaining the significance of nearly every one to Henry with unerring patience, she set to convincing her son, whom she was sure had exhausted his new friend with his innumerable questions, that it was time to leave.

He put up a bit of a fuss, explaining to her in an impossibly guileless manner that brought smiles to both James and Vesper's faces that he really liked it here and wanted to stay and there was so much to see.

But, she explained to him, it was getting late and they'd need to head back to the hotel for dinner soon and she was sure he'd like to cross the street to the park where he could spend some time at the playground beforehand.

So, after James assured him that he would be coming along, catching Vesper's eye and eliciting a smile, they left the museum, Vesper promising to the boy that they'd have plenty of time to come back at a later date and explore the rest of the museum.

It was nearing five o'clock in the evening as they passed by Royal Albert Hall on their way to the park and the sun was much lower in the sky behind the thin clouds than it had been two-odd hours earlier. But there was still plenty of light for her son to join the few other children playing on the massive pirate ship in the playground.

James stood off to the side of the playground, looking out of place among the decidedly youthful crowd of children of all ages and young parents. Vesper watched as her son joined the other children, climbing up the stairs and immediately immersing himself in the group, quickly making friends. He wasn't shy around other children, for that she was grateful, as she had been a shy, reserved child, clinging to her father's side most of the time.

She'd not had very many friends growing up, and her father's death had compounded this, making her withdraw into herself, and even the most concerned carers could not reach her. She was very happy that her own son had not had to endure the loneliness that she had, had never cried himself to sleep missing her.

A smile touched her lips as she watched him play happily, and as she stood there she was aware of a presence approaching from her left. Her smile got a little wider when she felt James's shoulder bump up against hers, much in the way she had done to him that day, long ago, after he'd miraculously managed to beat Le Chiffre at poker.

And much in the same way he had done that day, she turned her head to look at his face, and the dangerous grin he wore.

His shoulder was warm against hers through the thin coat she wore, and a shiver went through her. His touch had always had that effect on her, and except for the firm grip he'd given her arm earlier in the day in surprise, it was the first time they'd touched each other in years. His arm was firm and muscled against hers, and she resisted the hazardous urge to slip her arm through his and lean against him.

The day had been long and emotionally draining, and she was beginning to tire now, the shock and surprise she'd felt at having him unceremoniously step back into her life now fading to weariness. It would be so easy, so comforting just to rest her head on his nearby shoulder, to let him envelop her in his arms for the first time in years.

But their son, who to the untrained observer appeared to be ignorant of his mother's actions at the moment, apparently completely immersed in play, was watching them, this Vesper knew. He was always aware of her, and she of him, the consequence of single motherhood and raising a very observant and empathetic little boy.

So she resisted, taking what comfort she could in the fact that James was near, that he was here with them, finally. They had not had much of a chance to speak alone to one another since Henry's quick trip to the loo back in Kensington Square, and again she found herself at quite a loss for words. James, it seemed, felt the same, and they stood there for several minutes silently, watching their son play.

Their conversation in the café played back through her head, and at once a thought hit her. She smiled widely and was surprised to hear James's gruff voice speak a few seconds later.

"What?" he asked, and she turned to see that he was watching her, and had been, it seemed for quite some time. She felt herself flush momentarily, but brushed it off, looking back out at the playground.

"It's nothing," she said, nonchalantly, "I just remembered that you got something wrong." She turned to see amusement on his face and she couldn't help but smile.

"Oh?" he asked, curious.

"M didn't actually discover my pregnancy," she started, "she didn't learn of Henry's existence until he was nearly three weeks old." James turned to her, surprised.

"He wasn't born in America?" he asked. She shook her head, a rueful smile creeping onto her face.

"He was born in London," Vesper said, watching the surprise on James's face at this, "in Croydon, actually, on the twenty-fourth of April."

"Croydon?" James asked, astonished. He turned back toward the playground. "M knew my habits," he stated, after a few seconds, and she looked up at him curiously, "she knew I never ventured very far out of central London, unless it was travelling on the M4 to and from the airport. It was clever of her to hide you in plain sight," he finished, turning to look at her. "She got you a flat?" Vesper nodded.

"Yes," she replied, a nostalgic smile on her face as she thought of the little place where she had become a mother, "number eight, Gulliver Court." She turned to look into James's face, his blue eyes bright in the late afternoon sun. "That's where our son was born," she told him, and she suddenly felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, because she was tired, and the memory of her son's entry into the world came back to her very strongly, and also because this was James, in front of her, after all these years, and they were speaking about their son's birth. But then she blinked and took a deep breath. "He was born in the bath, in the morning," she told him, watching as a genuine smile crept onto his face. "It was perfect, James."

"I would've liked to have been there," he told her, his voice low, laden with emotion. She smiled.

"I know," she replied, and she held his gaze for a few breathless seconds, as they acknowledged all that had passed in that time. Then she looked away, back out toward the playground, where she spotted her towheaded son at once, up in the crow's nest of the ship, waving at her. She laughed, and heard James laughing beside her, and they both waved at the boy, before he disappeared back down to the deck of the ship.

James was still standing next to her, his shoulder against hers, the solidness of him a comfort in the waning afternoon. They stood this way for a few minutes, watching the children play, before James spoke again.

"When did you arrive in London?" he asked.

"Saturday evening," she told him, thinking back on that day that seemed incredibly long ago, when she had stood at the window in their hotel, looking out at this very city.

"Saturday?" James asked incredulously, and she nodded, smiling. She knew as well as he did that their meeting, barely two days after her arrival, had been incredibly serendipitous. "Where are you staying?"

She told him.

"The one on Edgware Road, just on the other side of the park?" James asked, and she nodded.

"Why?" she asked, amused.

"Because it's barely two miles from my flat," he told her, and she laughed incredulously, "why did you choose it?"

"The hotel?" she asked. "I don't know, I thought it would be close to all the sights, and to the park." James laughed. "What?"

"Why do I get the feeling that somewhere M is laughing right now?" he said, smiling, looking at her. She couldn't help but smile as well, at the ridiculous thought that that woman had somehow been so clever as to orchestrate their reunion from beyond the grave.

Vesper, though, chose to chalk it up to fate, and to luck, which she so fervently hoped was finally beginning to change.

"I learned of the attack on MI6," she said, feeling bold, "and I waited, and waited. I followed the news, but there was nothing after the inquiry."

"No," James replied softly, "there wouldn't have been." Vesper turned to look at him and caught a flash of deep pain in his eyes, before it quickly disappeared again.

"What happened, James?" she asked, her voice soft and low. But he shook his head, giving her an approximation of a smile.

"It's not the best time," he said, and she nodded, understanding. He would tell her, eventually.

They stood for a few minutes again, keeping an eye on their son, who was still clambering around the pirate ship energetically. Vesper knew she would need to fetch him soon, as the playground would be closing, and he would need supper, and probably a bath, as well.

"So you simply packed up and left?" James asked her, after a while, and she turned to him in surprise. "Once you learned of M's death, I assume." Vesper shook her head at his uncanny skills of deduction.

"I only knew that I had to come back here," she told him, because it was the truth. She'd been drawn to this city. Leaving New York had been the only option.

"To me?" he asked, and she turned to see he was teasing, but that the lack of mischief in his eyes betrayed him.

"Why else?" she asked, and he laughed quietly. She looked out at the darkening playground, at her fairhaired son, who was climbing deftly down a rope. "He needed you, James," she said, after some time, "maybe he doesn't realise it yet, but he will, eventually." She turned to look at James, who was watching her carefully.

"And that was the only reason?" he asked her, his eyes twinkling, and she fought very hard to keep the smile off her lips. "Because of…our son?" There was some hesitancy in his use of the shared pronoun, and it gave her an excited little twinge in her gut. He had turned toward her in the dwindling light, and was stepping dangerously close to her as he went on. "You didn't, oh, decide to jump on a plane and come to London just because you wanted to see _me_?"

She found a smile had come to her lips despite her best efforts, and that James, seeing it, seemed almost satisfied.

"That may have been part of it," Vesper whispered, and she saw the gratification in James's eyes at this admission, the recognition that there was still something there, after all this time, and that it was reciprocated. She ignored that familiar twinge deep in her belly, and the fact that her heart had begun to beat faster in her breast having him this close to her.

"But," she started again, tearing her gaze away from his face to look at their son, "he's my priority, James," she told him. "He adores you, you know," she said, trying to regulate her breathing, pushing away the risky feelings he could always evoke in her, "already. I can tell."

"Well, I quite like him, too," James said, and Vesper could not help the wide smile that came to her lips, unbidden.

"You were great with him," she said. James shrugged nonchalantly.

"He's a clever boy, and well-behaved, as well," he said, and she smiled, looking over at the boy in question, "though I will say with certainty that he did not get any of that from me." Vesper laughed deeply, looking back at James.

"You'd be surprised," Vesper told him, "he reminds me of you more and more every day." He raised his eyebrows at this, but did not say anything, and Vesper turned back toward the play area.

"I was wondering," James said, after a while, "if the two of you might be up to join me at my flat for dinner tonight?"

Vesper turned to look at him, surprise, she knew, evident on her face. Her first instinct was to gently turn him down, but the complete lack of guile on his face momentarily took her breath away. He was without his mask, stripped of his famous armour right now, completely and utterly vulnerable, and at once she saw that the events that had led up to M's death had had a very profound impact on him.

And in that instant she saw the need on his face, saw that he needed her and their son more right now than she needed him. But, the rational part of her that had become more and more pronounced since she'd become a mother knew that it would be imprudent, that being nearer to James than she had to be when they were both in such a weary and vulnerable state was not a good idea, not with all there was between them.

"James," she started, but then, as it often was, the decision was made for her when her son ran up to them, and she turned away to greet the boy.

"Mom," he said right away, and she knew what was coming. His energetic demeanour had gone, and she could see the events of the long, eventful day had taken its toll on him. "I'm getting tired," he said, rubbing his eye, "do we have to walk all the way back to the hotel?" His tone of voice was getting dangerously close to whingeing, and she knew he was on the way to a tantrum if he didn't get some rest straight away.

Vesper looked up at James, who was watching the mother and son curiously.

"You live nearby?" Vesper asked him, reluctantly.

"Just on the other side of the park," he told her, pointing west toward Kensington. Vesper sighed, crouching down in front of her tired little boy.

"James has invited us for dinner at his flat," she told him, and he looked up at the man with wide blue eyes. "Would you like to go there instead? It's closer."

And as she expected, the boy's face brightened considerably and he nodded. She grimaced. "Okay then," she said, standing up and grabbing her son's hand, trying valiantly to avoid looking at James. But she could not for long, her eyes flicking over to find him looking very pleased with himself indeed. She sighed deeply, wondering just what she was getting herself into, mentally repeating her earlier mantra of steadfastness and unyielding.

"Lead the way," she said, and he did.


	24. Chapter 24

Henry, it seemed, hadn't been exaggerating in just how fatigued he was, as even before they had exited the playground he began complaining that he was too tired to walk.

Vesper, sighing, was about to lift him up when James interrupted.

"I'll take him," he said, making eye contact with her before looking back down at the boy. "That okay?" he asked Henry.

The boy nodded tiredly, lifting his arms toward James, who effortlessly picked him up. Henry quickly laid his head on James's shoulder, wrapping his arms around his neck.

Vesper had to smile when the man looked up at her a tad bewilderedly, clearly surprised at how comfortable the boy was with him, already.

"Come on," James said to her, and she followed him down the walk.

They strode south down the Broad Walk, Henry still clutching James tightly, past the massive London plane trees lining the path. The day had been warm, and the air was still fragrant with the smells of the incipient spring. But it was now nearly half past five, and it had begun to cool now as the sun sank lower in the sky.

Vesper had begun to sympathise with her son, for as they strolled along, she began to feel exhaustion sink into her bones. It had been a long, eventful day, and she found it very hard to believe that just this morning she'd been pondering James's location, and now? Now he clutched their son tightly as they walked through Hyde Park.

And it was at this point, as the trees thinned out, revealing the Round Pond to the left and Kensington Palace to the right, that she looked over to see her son had fallen asleep in James's arms.

And, suddenly glimpsing his tired face, slack and innocent in sleep, she came to an abrupt realisation. She had come here to bring his father into Henry's life, but she had never stopped to think of the consequences of bringing another person into _their_ lives. The boy already trusted James implicitly, and was clearly enamoured of the man.

And it was then, as they turned right onto Palace Avenue, said palace visible off to their right, that the first tendrils of uneasiness began to pull at her. She had been brought back to reality, struck by the alarming thought that he would be part of their lives now, forever, whether or not the two of them managed to salvage their tattered relationship. He was a part of the family.

And at once she hearkened back to New York, five years ago, the day a young Christina had come to her door on M's suggestion, all blonde curls and bubbliness, wanting to help Vesper care for her son. Allowing the girl to help her and coming to trust her had taken months, and Vesper knew she was lucky that she was such a good fit.

And now she was bringing another person into this little family that she had worked so hard to keep together, allowing another person to enter her son's admittedly sheltered life. She had tried so hard to keep him safe and protected from all the evil in the world. Evil she had seen with her own eyes.

And, yes, it was James, and it wasn't as if she expected him to leave them. She knew him. He was not that kind of man. But he was also a spy for the British Secret Service, and although she knew he'd never intentionally put the two of them in harm's way, the thought of the danger that came along with his position and the thoughts of the terrifying events that had happened the last time she was involved in his life were enough to give her a jolt of alarm as she followed the man out of Hyde Park's gates and into the borough of Kensington.

And she was going with him now, her and her son, to his home.

And it was not only that. She had not been around a man for this long in years, and certainly not this man, the man who had fathered her son, the man who had thought her dead until just this afternoon. The man who had recently lost the woman who had been like a mother to him since he'd been barely out of his teens. What was she getting herself into?

But there was no time to turn back now, as James turned left off Kensington Church Street, and she followed him down the impossibly narrow sidewalks of Dukes Lane. They were surrounded by brick and mortar on both sides, the buildings rising high and making the street seem somehow even narrower. Vesper kept close behind James as they walked on, the street finally opening up as they went around a bend. This led them to the gate of a large block of brick flats.

Vesper was surprised when James stopped here, entering the code and beckoning her into the courtyard. The building was impressive, with red and yellow variegated bricks and stark white sashed window frames, a deep courtyard leading them past shrubs and trees as they walked toward the front door, but it was not at all what she had expected for him.

Truthfully, she had not actually spent much time in thought as to where she'd expected him to live, but she'd definitely imagined him in a much more exclusive area than this, with large blocks of newly-built high-rise flats, utilitarian and elite.

She had thought he'd have little use for the inescapably twee, narrow streets of Kensington, but, now that she'd thought it over, she supposed that Notting Hill and Holland Park to the north were far too fashionable for his tastes, and Knightsbridge and Chelsea to the south much too austere.

This area was affluent, but quiet, and didn't take itself as seriously as the others did.

And once they'd entered the building and she walked through the door of his third-floor flat, she understood completely why he'd picked this place. While the exterior of the building was classical, unadornedly Victorian, his flat was exclusively modern, with stark lines and bright whites, the floors dark hardwood.

It was completely _him_, and as she closed the door behind her, she momentarily forgot her earlier apprehensions, stepping into the flat and marvelling at the clean modernity of the décor. The living room was bright, with large sash windows looking out into the courtyard, and was open to the kitchen, with its bright white cupboards and appliances.

Vesper turned from the window to watch James deposit Henry onto the soft white suede sofa and grab a nearby blanket to drape over the boy. He only stirred slightly when James laid him down, and was now dead asleep again, his little face slack and exhausted.

"I'll let him sleep for an hour or so," Vesper told James, "not for too long; I want him to sleep tonight."

James nodded, his eyes still on the sleeping child. Vesper watched his face curiously as he looked at the boy almost reverently. There was sort of appreciation, or at least the beginning of it, that she had not seen before. It was almost as if the incipient end of the day had begun to bring home, like it had for her, the truth to him. That this boy was his son, that he had been partly responsible for bringing him into the world, and now would be partly responsible for his care.

But then, like it often was, it was gone, and he looked up at her with his trademark coolness.

And then it was the two of them again, alone, in his home, their son soundly asleep on the sofa between them. She smiled at him, her uneasiness beginning to bloom again as he stared back at her with his impossibly blue eyes.

She looked away, out the window at the twilight.

"Would you like some tea?" James asked, breaking the silence, and couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, at just how English it was, how English _he_ was, and just how much she had missed this country and this city.

"I'd love a cup of tea," she said, and James turned away toward the kitchen. She watched him go, still smiling, and looked out into the darkening courtyard, empty right now, and the few people walking by on the street outside the gate.

She had to admit she'd been extremely curious to see where he had chosen to make his home, and as James put the kettle on in the kitchen, she took the opportunity to wander around the flat, curious to see the rest of the place.

The telephone rang and James quickly turned and answered it. Henry, a heavy sleeper, did not even stir.

She fought off the curiosity that sprung up in her as he spoke into the telephone in hushed, but audible tones, but decided to give him some privacy, slipping into the hallway.

The corridor was wide and painted white, like the rest of the flat, and the first room she came upon, obviously James's bedroom, was as bright and unadorned as the rest of the place. There were no personal articles, no pictures on his night table. The bed, a rather sharp king-size platform bed was unmade, not surprising to Vesper. James, while meticulous in other areas, could be decidedly sloppy at times.

She left the room to find another bedroom, this one fashioned as a makeshift study, with a surprisingly large book collection and a laptop computer on a modern desk. The room was as Spartan and utilitarian as the other rooms, though Vesper was not surprised. James was not a man who spent much time at home. This place was not much more than a pied-a-terre to him, somewhere to shower and change his clothes, maybe have a quick meal before he was off again.

The bathroom was beautiful, stark white, with dark wood cabinets and a large Jacuzzi tub. There was also a beautiful glass-walled shower stall, and she examined it covetously, aching to try it out. Her muscles ached from the miles she'd walked today, and a shower would help immensely to calm her down.

She exited the bathroom to find James watching her with a faintly amused expression on his face. She held his gaze before looking away, out the window that faced the back of the building. The other houses and blocks of flats were hard to make out in the waning light.

"Tea's almost ready," James told her, and she nodded.

"It's a very nice flat, James," she told him. He nodded, giving her a quick smile.

"I bought it a few months ago," he said, looking around. "I was in the market." These last words were said with some derision and Vesper looked up at him in confusion.

"Why?" she asked. He looked at her, his eyes discerning.

"Oh, she didn't tell you?" he asked, sardonically. Vesper's heart quickened at this question as her mind ran through the possibilities of what M had kept from her. "No, of course she didn't," he said, almost to himself, "she wouldn't have wanted to worry you. She knew I was alive," he said, significantly.

"What?" she asked him, now completely baffled, and he smiled grimly.

"A little advice; if you're fighting a man atop a train over a bridge, try your very best not to take a bullet in the abdomen," James told her, his attempt at dark humour, but she could not smile.

"Christ, James," she whispered, truly horrified.

"No worries," he said, in that same tone, "missed all major organs, the water was frigid. Slowed down my heart and my breathing. A fisherman found me, took me back to his village, nursed me back to health." She could only shake her head in disbelief. "I was gone long enough for M to declare me dead, and liquidate my assets."

"How can you be so calm about it?" Vesper asked, resisting the urge to touch him, to embrace him, knowing how close he'd come to dying.

"You know me," he told her, but there was no humour in his tone. She looked up into his eyes, her breath hitching at the cool intensity she was met with. "It's what I do," he said.

She sighed, the anxiety over his entry into their lives creeping back in. That he could be so blasé about what had happened to him scared her; it had always scared her. That way that he could brush off the most grievous injuries and scoff at mortal peril. She, on the contrary, felt everything so profoundly and personally, and was affected intensely by events and experiences. She was not cut out for a life like his.

It had taken years for her to recover from the events that had occurred during and after their assignment at Casino Royale, and that was even before her son was born. His birth had changed her, had induced such potent emotions, brought an empathy out of her she had never possessed before.

Her son, innocent and unsullied, who knew nothing of the circumstances which had led to his conception, of the violence and cruelty inflicted on both of his parents before he'd even come into existence. Her son, who slept soundlessly at the end of the corridor, already so completely trusting of this man.

She looked back up at James and found him watching her intensely, his blue eyes icy and shrewd.

"You're regretting your decision to bring him here," he said, matter-of-factly, and she sighed, at his astuteness, slightly irked that he had always been able to read so much of what little she gave away.

"Perhaps," she told him, holding his gaze, "you have to understand, James, your world has always terrified me. I'm not suited for it, and Henry is so young," she finished, hoping he would appreciate her position. She could see the hurt, under all that coldness. She hated to do it to him, especially in the wake of how patient and caring he had been with them both today, but her son's welfare was, at the end of the day, the most important thing in the world to her.

James, it seemed, did understand, his eyes softening slightly. He sighed, rubbing his right shoulder unconsciously. At this, a thought struck her.

"You said abdomen," Vesper said, and he looked at her in confusion.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, his arm dropping back down to his side.

"You said you were shot in the abdomen, but you've been favouring your right shoulder all day," she said. It had been nagging her, and she had initially passed it off as nothing, but when he'd lifted Henry into his arms one-handedly, and then used his occupied left hand to enter the gate code and open the door, she had realised that something was amiss.

He straightened, a smile coming to his lips, and then to his eyes, the corners crinkling in that way that she loved. He was looking at her with admiration, and as she recognised it, that familiar flutter in her stomach came back. She tried her best to ignore it.

"I'm impressed," he told her, and she shrugged.

"I'm a mother now," she told him, feigning nonchalance, and his smile widened. "You've got to be able to notice things like these." She looked into his eyes. "Did something else happen?"

"I was shot," he told her, ignoring the concern on her face at this admission, "by some maniac who felt that regular old bullets just didn't do quite enough damage." There was that sarcastic tone again, that way that he tried to use humour to defuse the impact of his words. It didn't work. Her stomach clenched painfully at the thought of how much abuse his body had taken, and she sighed.

"What did he use?" she asked him, quietly, though she did not want to hear the answer.

"A depleted uranium shell," he told her, softly patting the place on his right shoulder where it had hit, "Tanner told me I was lucky it didn't cut me in half."

"And you didn't see a doctor?" she asked, aggrieved.

He didn't answer.

She sighed deeply, her eyes drifting closed as she shook her head softly. She wanted to shake him, to slap him, to make him understand that every injury he suffered, every mar on his body was a mar on her own soul. That motherhood had sensitised her so profoundly that she felt as if these wounds were her own.

Though despite her frustration, she still wanted to take him in her arms, to confirm that he was here, and alive, and mostly intact.

But she resisted, because she was tired and knew that she'd be helpless to stop anything that was started between them tonight. And there was a very young boy asleep in the room down the hall who wouldn't understand.

"Shrapnel has gotten into the joint," James said, the humour gone from his tone, and she looked up at him. "For the last week I've barely been able to lift it."

"What about work?" For a few seconds she saw intense displeasure on his face, and she could tell the news was not good.

"Mallory's put me on mandatory medical leave," he said, his tone confirming his infuriation at this decision, "I was just coming back from a meeting with him when I ran into you."

"You're serious?" she asked, surprised, and not pleased that her earlier suspicions had been right.

"Very serious," James replied, his tone hollow, "he's set up an appointment with a surgeon. I'm to go for a consultation next week." He looked up at Vesper. "That was his assistant on the phone just now."

"Moneypenny?" Vesper asked. A small smile came to his lips, and she flushed. "Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear."

"She was very apologetic," he said, bitterness tingeing his words, "which made it all the more harder to hear."

"I'm sorry, James," she told him, and she meant it, because he didn't deserve any of this. He served his country more honourably and tirelessly than anyone she'd know, often to the detriment of his own welfare.

"So am I," he said, after a few seconds. He shifted, rolling his right shoulder gingerly, pain momentarily colouring his features. She looked up at him with curiosity. "I've been thinking," he said, "wondering if this is a blessing or a curse."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I've wanted out," he started, "if not for the attack on MI6, I would have been." He stopped, and Vesper watched him curiously, surprised by this admission. "It's not that I don't fancy the work anymore," he said, "but Mallory said it best; it's a young man's game."

A frown had come to Vesper's brow at this admission, at this defeatist streak that sometimes came out in him. She was surprised at the anger that bubbled up at his resignation, at how a man so tough and of such fortitude could act like a stubborn child at times. Gods, this man could affect her, even now, after all these years.

"You're going to that appointment," she said, startling even herself at the passion in her tone. James, equally stunned, looked up at her, an impish grin blooming on his face. His amusement only fuelled her indignation.

"Oh?" he asked, smirking now. "Am I?"

"Yes, you are," she replied, standing her ground. "I couldn't care less about MI6; you can leave, or you can go back. But if you want to be in your son's life, you'll be going to that consultation, and you'll do everything the surgeon tells you to do," she told him, trying her very best to ignore how entertained he seemed to be by her outrage. "Because he deserves to have a father who can lift him up and toss him in the air, not some poor sod who's too proud and stubborn to have a doctor look him over." James was still looking at her in that way, an infuriating, admiring smile on his face.

"Alright," he said calmly, as if acquiescing to a simple request.

She sighed heavily, having been geared up for a fight, and rolled her eyes, refusing to feel guilt at his calm compliance.

"I'm sorry," she said, after some time. She looked up to see James gazing at her with such open affection that she could no longer keep the smile off her face.

"You know," he said after some time, "I'm quite happy you're back." The words were simple and succinct, and he said them so honestly that her grin grew into a full-fledged beaming smile. At once, the realisation that he was here, finally, her James, and, hit her so deeply that she could not quell the joy that filled her.

Her earlier apprehensions faded away, now mere memories, and as she looked into his eyes, tears threatening to fall from hers, she felt heartened, encouraged. That this decision had been the right one and it was important only that he was here, everything else naught but trifles that could be dealt with, discussed and overcome like the adults they were.

He'd stepped a bit closer to her, his toes now mere inches away from hers, and she could feel the heat radiating from him. Without thinking, her hand went to his chest, gently laying it over his heart, and her eyes closed at the warm firmness she found there, the reassuring thump of his heart against her hand. She sighed softly at the comfort she got from this mere touch, being able to feel with her own hands that he was alive.

She had been so strong for such a long time, every worry and problem hers and hers alone. It had been rewarding, but ultimately exhausting, and the thought of being able to share some of the burden, to have someone to defer to, to hold her at the end of the day, filled her with relief. It was too appealing to turn down.

So, when she felt James's strong arm circle around her, pulling her flush against his chest, she did not object, leaning her head against his shoulder. He was impossibly warm and firm against her, still muscled and fit despite his advancing age, and she could not help the soft sigh she let out against his neck.

How long they stood there she could not say, her hand still trapped between them, the rhythmic beats of his heart lulling her. She'd been waiting to feel his arms around her again for so long. She could feel the tears that had been threatening to fall burn at the corners of her eyes, but she pushed them back, not yet ready for him to see her be weak, to give in just yet.

After some time, he pulled away, kissing the top of her head impossibly tenderly. She did not want to separate from him. She could stand here all day wrapped in his warmth, the scars the years had wrought falling away like leaves in the fall.

But her son would need to be woken soon, and he would need to be fed and bathed before bed.

Thankfully, James stepped back, his arm falling away from her. She felt his warmth recede, a shiver passing over her as he regarded her thoughtfully. Then he turned away, pointing toward the kitchen.

"Tea should be ready," he said, and like that he took off down the corridor. She watched him go, wrapping her arms around herself to negate the chill that had seeped in. A smile came to her lips in spite of herself, in spite of all her worries, because something unfamiliar was budding in her, something she'd not felt for quite some time. It was so alien that it momentarily frightened her, exhilarated her at its intensity.

It was hope. Pure and strong and terrifying, but as she watched him walk away she could not quash it, couldn't take the smile off her face even if she'd tried.

She followed him into the kitchen.


End file.
